


Wildfire

by Ancientgreekfreak



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, book!jaime beating show!jaime to death and shoving him in a closet, correcting this idiot sandwich, dumb and dumber will pry these babies from my cold dead hands, gratuitous feelings (and some smut)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-03-02 09:16:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 29,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18808204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ancientgreekfreak/pseuds/Ancientgreekfreak
Summary: Brienne's thoughts during Jaime's attempted seduction of Brienne. Because their facial journeys were too amazing not to, and the Braime fandom deserves something nice today. (Now a full length fix-it, because these two deserve so much better, and so do we.)





	1. It's Getting Hot in Here

            Brienne crouched to stoke the fire back to its warm blaze, feeling it keenly against the hot blush already suffusing her cheeks. She was sure that her mind would be playing the past few minutes over and over again as soon as she closed her eyes – Tyrion’s strange glances between her and Jaime until he suddenly declared her a virgin, her sudden attempt at flight (for to be considered undesirable is one thing, to have it announced in front of the man one was in love with was intolerable), Tormund’s advances, subtle though they were by his standards. She was at least comforted by the fact that he had not referred to her as “the big woman” during their conversation, for she hadn’t the faintest idea how Jaime would react to such a slight – his behavior lately was incredibly enigmatic, naming her a knight and fighting his way through a crowd of wights to save her one moment, teasing her about Renly Baratheon the next. As she tossed another log onto the fire, Brienne felt certain that if she’d met Jaime before Renly– she was startled out of her reverie by a persistent knocking at the door.

 _Fantastic._ Assuming that it was Tormund Giantsbane come to entice her to bear his children once again, she flung the door open with a hard look on her face, straightening to her full height in an effort to menace the persistent Wildling. Her effort was wasted, though, as she opened the door to reveal Jaime, gazing at her with a look in his eyes she’d seen often since he’d arrived at Winterfell, but which she hadn’t been able to place quite yet. He swept into the room, babbling some nonsense about how she hadn’t taken a drink in Tyrion’s (disgustingly biased) game, clutching a pitcher of wine in his golden hand. She defended herself as vehemently as the subject matter warranted, but in truth she was mesmerized by the play of the firelight on his skin, making him more golden than the hand he insisted upon wearing, the hand’s filigree a poor comparison to the workmanship evident in the line of Jaime’s jaw, the golden flecks in his emerald-green eyes.

     Brienne watched as he sloppily filled the goblets with wine, pressing one towards her. Despite her protests that this drink was outside the scope of the game and therefore served no purpose, Jaime was insistent, so what could she do but take the proffered wine and drink? Somewhere in the Seven Kingdoms, there might be a woman who could refuse Jaime Lannister requesting something of her with those eyes of his, but that woman was certainly not Brienne of Tarth.

     As deeply perplexed as she was in that moment, it was nothing compared to the amount of confusion that beset her as Jaime began pacing the room, complaining of the heat. An uncommon complaint in the North during winter, to be sure. She heard the sound of him pulling his leather jerkin off before she turned around. Unbidden, her thoughts turned to that bathtub at Harrenhal where she had seen Jaime’s body, _half a corpse and half a god_. The thought of his body, dirty and worn though he had been, sent a sudden flush of heat through her body, and she wiped the resultant heat off her palms as she turned to face him. He had nearly pulled the thing off by the time she managed to control her voice long enough to respond with some drivel about how she’d learned to keep the rooms warm upon her arrival in the North.

     Briefly, Brienne wondered whether or not she’d stepped into an alternate universe, or had frozen to death in her sleep one night, as Jaime hadn’t made a single snide comment at her expense since his arrival. Either that, or he was deathly ill. As if on cue, he allayed her fears by mocking her apparent diligence, and she wondered if he would be _normal_ now. She responded with a flippant “Piss off,” that (she hoped) in no way reflected the fact that her heart skipped a beat when he turned back to her. She tracked him with her eyes as he sauntered over to her, gazing up at her in a way that made her feel absolutely small, despite the fact that she had a good half-inch on him.

     As he continued to grouse about the North, it felt like a temporary return to their normal dynamic – he snarked and attempted to rile her, and she responded with as straight-faced a response she could muster. In the dim candlelight, however, without his armor or the depressed cynicism of their journey back to King’s Landing, Jaime was infinitely more dangerous. She reminded herself that Cersei was the only woman that he would ever love, that he’d never even see her as a woman, repeating these facts to herself as she watched him pour out a yet another goblet of wine.

     A woman who was not Brienne of Tarth might have surmised at this point that Jaime’s continuous attempts to pull off his clothes was an awkward, albeit endearing attempt at seduction. As it was, the object of his affections had been affianced three times and summarily rejected in each instance, and was therefore rather loathe to believe that any man, let alone the most handsome man in the Seven Kingdoms, would be harboring romantic notions about her.

     By the time Brienne had finished her internal flagellation, Jaime was accusing Tormund Giantsbane of _growing on her_ , of all the ridiculous things to come out of his mouth that evening. At that moment, as if struck by lightning, the epiphany struck. She was barely able to whisper out her accusations of Jaime’s jealousy, afraid to even hope for the hope of what that would mean.

     She half-expected Jaime to laugh at her, to remark snidely on the improbability of _him_ being jealous on her account, to leave her holding the tattered shreds of her heart once again. Instead, he agreed with her.

     When he began pulling yet another layer off his body in response to the alleged heat, she understood his intent, confused as she was that this (whatever _this_ was) was actually happening. He began tugging at his laces, biting at them in a display so completely uncharacteristic of the generally suave Jaime Lannister, that she batted his hand away and began to do it for him. She attempted to keep her face stoic, unmoved as she did so, desperately hoping that he couldn’t hear her heart thundering in her chest from where he stood.

     That hope, fleeting as it was, fled altogether as she felt his hands, warm and calloused at her laces, attempting to remove her shirt. She caught his hand, undoing her own shirt after she finished with his. Whatever happened here tonight, she needed him to know that this was _her choice_. That he had not despoiled her against her will, besmirched her honor and taken her maidenhead because she had let him. Brienne wanted him so badly she couldn’t breathe with the force of it on her chest, and she couldn’t help it any more - she pulled his shirt up, off his body, letting him discard it as her own shirt joined his.

_I am ugly, I am bruised, I am broken. I cannot be-_

      Her moment of all-encompassing self-doubt was broken by Jaime, breathlessly declaring that he’d never slept with a knight before. She recalled his obsession with Tormund, the jealousy that had radiated off him in waves, and responded, “I’ve never slept with anyone before.” Infuriatingly, Jaime chose to break the tension by quipping, “Then you have to drink, those are the rules.” _For the love of the Seven, this again?_ Brienne had only begun to respond, “I told you,” before Jaime’s lips were on hers, and it was like wildfire, burning, melting, consuming-

_fin_


	2. So Take Off All Your Clothes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You asked, and so you shall receive.

Jaime flinched, his eyes shooting straight to Brienne as Tyrion “surmised” her virginity. He knew his misgivings were well-founded when she shot up, dismissing herself from the table. _Odd for a highborn lady to be ashamed of her virginity…unless…she wasn’t a virgin? But who-_

Before Jaime could wrap his mind around the exact direction that thought had taken, his attention was otherwise engaged by Tormund Giantsbane, or Giantpain, as Jaime had taken to calling him privately. The gargantuan man was making some kind of crude jest concerning his pants, preventing Brienne from her making her escape. As she excused herself once again, Giantpain moved as if to follow. Acting on nothing but battle-hardened instincts, Jaime shot up in front of him, blocking his route to Brienne. Giving the Wildling a look which indicated that he was not going to be seeing _his_ wench any time soon, Jaime exited the hall with rough pat on Tormund’s shoulder and a gait that could only be described as The Lannister Swagger.

Walking with confidence he certainly didn’t possess, Jaime waylaid the nearest servant, plucking a tray of Dornish Arbor Gold right out of her hands. She squeaked in protest, but a quick grin in her direction was sufficient to render her speechlesslong enough for him to make a swift exit down the hallway. He hastened in the direction of Brienne’s chamber, not quite sure what he would do once he arrived. Jaime attempted to recall the courage he had summoned in the moment that he had tilted at Daenerys’ dragon. Unfortunately, his intoxicated brain seemed to categorize merely speaking with Brienne at this moment a more perilous endeavor than riding full-tilt toward his imminent death.

Stopping before her door, with a full jug of wine tucked under his arm, Jaime felt white-hot panic run through his body, perspiration beginning to gather at his brow as though he was a green lad once more. He heard her shuffling about inside, the sound of a log hitting the fire. Taking a deep breath, he remembered the words of Vargo Hoat, singing through his blood as he’d jumped into the bear-pit for Brienne: “You want her? Go get her. _”_ It was with this memory in mind that he knocked on her door, his fist pounding upon the door as surely as his feet hit the dirt of the pit on that fateful day.

 Within moments, Brienne stood before him, a truly thunderous expression on her face, and a lesser man would have turned around and ran straight for what remained of the Wall, Jaime stood his ground. He was rewarded within a moment, as her expression melted from truly fearsome to adorable confusion. He supposed she had been expecting Tormund to be the one to follow her, which led him to believe that perhaps he should have been more demonstrative while staking his claim to Brienne in front of Giantpain. In any case, he walked into the room quickly, before she could decide to kick him back out. Feeling the heavy silver container slipping from his arm, he placed it along with the cups on the nearest table he could find. As he did so, he began haranguing her about taking that drink to confirm her virginity. The suspicion that that Giantpain might have laid his grubby, unworthy paws on _his_ Brienne made Jaime want to march back to the Great Hall and turn Widow’s Wail into Wildling’s Wail.

He brandished the wine at her, lauding its vintage while continuing to antagonize her, hoping to goad her into admitting whether or not she was still a virgin. He remembered his former cruel words regarding her appearance with a wince, deeming his former self a bloody fool. As he held out a nearly overflowing wine goblet towards her, he regarded her eyes, the usually brilliant shade of blue rendered nearly as dark as the sapphires that he had tried to save her with. _Astonishing eyes._ _In this light, she could almost be a beauty. In every light, she is now a knight._

He watched with some satisfaction as she put the cup to her lips, drinking with a bewildered expression still plastered on her face. He traced the lines of her jaw with his eyes, down to her neck, where the scars of the bear still marred her freckled skin. Heat shot down through his body as he watched her drink, removing the goblet from her lips, which formed a perfect “O” shape as she continued to look at him, baffled. Finding himself utterly without words, Jaime stalked to the other side of the room, the combination of the roaring fire and Brienne’s presence increasing his body temperature to nigh uncomfortable levels.

The only solution his lust (and wine)-addled mind could concoct was to start divesting himself of his clothing. After all, Jaime knew that although his sword hand was gone, his physique had certainly returned. At this point, he was willing to press every advantage he had.

He shook his coat onto the floor as Brienne attempted to explain her dedication to proper firewood management – honorable to a fault, even where the fireplace was concerned. He kept himself turned around for the moment, attempting to get his… _situation_ under control before facing her once more. He decided upon the somewhat safer approach of mocking her, the truly acerbic tones of his earlier insults long gone. When she responded, “Piss off,” Jaime could have clapped with delight, so far was she from the iron-mouthed woman he had first met as she dragged him across Westeros. The Brienne of all those years ago would have shut herself off at the first sign of mockery, but she now felt comfortable enough to snark back at him. _She was comfortable with him._ The thought filled him with that now-familiar heat, he realized now it was inevitable – if he had not come to her chambers this night, it would have been the next night, or the next. The conversation might have been different, the context slightly skewed, but there was no denying that he _wanted_ her.

The thought propelled him towards her as he derided the North ( _can’t you see I’m here for you, he wanted to scream_ ), looking up at her with enough heat to render the fire a bit offended. When she made mention of things growing upon him, he was reminded once more of that thrice-damned wildling, who looked very much as though he would like to “grow” on Brienne. Just drunk enough to let the words past his lips, he asked jealously, “What about Tormund Giantsbane? Has he  _grown_ on you? He was quite sad when you left.”

Brienne regarded him silently for a moment, somehow managing to look awestruck and completely confused in equal measure. It was a good job she hadn’t a bit of inclination towards gambling – she’d be flat broke within an hour with that expressive face of hers. _And by the Seven, those eyes_. She responded in an admirably measured tone, “You sound quite jealous,” to which he had no defense. After all, it was true.

Lost for words yet again, he resorted to his very untried and (as of yet) untrue tactic of removing layers of clothing in hopes of tempting her into making the first move. That, and he’d never actually had to seduce anyone before. He tugged on his laces, bringing one up to his mouth to attempt to tug the knots loose. After a few seconds of watching him struggle, Brienne took pity on him and batted his hand away, beginning to undo his laces herself. If it were anyone else, Jaime would have been mortified beyond all reason, but she had seen him covered in his own filth, convinced him to live when he had wanted naught more than to die, had seen him at his worst and wanted him all the same. They were beyond the terms of society, the appearances and the manners. And that is why he began unlacing her shirt.

His heart stuttered to a stop when she shooed his hand away once again, only to restart at a doubled pace when she started pulling his own shirt off. For once, he was the one completely bewildered, left gaping up at her as she began undoing her own shirt. She slipped it off her broad, freckled shoulders, and for a moment, they were caught in limbo, staring at each other as the years that they had silently pined for each other like _idiots_ finally came to a head.

As she admitted that she’d never slept with anyone before, Jaime was shocked that his heart hadn’t physically beaten out of his chest with the force of its pounding. The only way he knew to respond was by bringing up the ( _stupid, completely wonderful_ ) game once again, giving her a chance to dissolve this moment, pretend it had never happened, guard her virtue like the responsible maiden she should be. Instead, she continued looking right in his eyes, barely breathing out her response. _If you want her, go get her. If you want her, go get her. Ifyouwanther,gogetherifyouwanther,gogetherifyouwanther,gogether._

So he did.

And thus, they ignited.

_fin. (for real this time)_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Their ending was completely ridiculous, and I am going to write fanfic for these two till it stops hurting.


	3. 2 Knights, 3 Hands, No Rules

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oathsex: Two Knights, Three Hands, No Rules.

Jaime’s hand next went to the laces of Brienne’s trousers, in an attempt to untie them, but she arrested his hand’s movement by gently taking both his hands, flesh and gold alike, in hers. She saw the insecurity writ plain on his face as he contemplated his golden appendage in her hand, secured onto his flesh with a series of leather straps. Adopting the tone she normally reserved for giving orders on the battlefield, she commanded, “I shall want this off,” and skimmed her hands up his arm to begin unlacing the straps securing the contraption to his arm.

Jaime’s breath hitched at the sensation of Brienne’s fingers running lightly over his forearm, watching with an open mouth and no small amount of wonder in his eyes as she deftly removed the cumbersome hand from his stump. He scrutinized her expression carefully, looking for the signs of disgust he so feared would mar her features. However, she appeared to consider the endeavor with no more than concentration, making a concerted effort to avoid causing him pain. Despite himself, Jaime sighed with relief as the hand was removed, his stump raw and chafed from the extended use of his prosthesis. His eyes flickered up to her sapphire orbs, in apparent disbelief that she expressed no qualms about touching the most shameful piece of himself. _Then again_ , he reminded himself, _she was the only one who ever saw me as more than my sword hand. More than what I could do on the battlefield._

As if able to hear his thoughts, Brienne lifted his stump to her lips, placing a feather-light kiss on it, then scrutinized the abrasions on it with evident concern. Holding it up to the light, she fretted, “Perhaps we should get some ointment on this? I believe Maester Tarly to be fairly sober-”

Jaime cut her off with a fierce growl, lunging for her lips once again. Punctuating each word with a kiss, he gritted out, “They can cut the rest of the bloody arm off for all I care, but _we_ are not leaving this room, wench.” She reciprocated in kind, enthusiasm making up for lack of experience, panting and flushed scarlet as they pulled away momentarily to catch their breath. He drifted his stump over her face, half-expecting a grimace, but she simply placed a gentle hand over it, holding it to her scarred cheek, nestling into it. He remembered Cersei’s scathing words, the way she regarded his stump in perpetual disgust. Since it had been cut off, Jaime had come to realize just how much Cersei had only regarded him her equal, her true twin, because of the violence his sword hand could endow.

Brienne noticed the way his eyes clouded, wrapping her arm around his neck, and brought their foreheads together, her lips nearly touching his, anchoring him to the present. Jaime thought idly that if he could die drowning in those luminous blue eyes, that it would be a very good death indeed. As it was, a _certain part_ of his anatomy was decidedly not dead, and making an extremely prominent appearance against Brienne. She gasped softly as she felt his hardness against her, straining against his breeches.

Jaime grinned against her lips as he felt her gasp into his mouth, and began trailing his mouth down her throat. She shivered against him, and he grazed down her throat with his teeth, feeling her pulse fluttering rapidly under him. Sucking on her pulse point, he mumbled salaciously against her throat, “Scandalized are we, ser?” The resultant shudder that wracked her body spurred Jaime to press kisses to the rest of the long, pale column of her throat. He was careful not to linger too long in one place, lest she bear visible marks come the morning.

Despite his chivalrous efforts, Brienne’s large, calloused hands gripped his hair, attempting to hold his infuriatingly nimble mouth in place. Jaime obliged – after all, who was he to deny his lady? One of her hands shyly disentangled from his golden locks, reaching down to feel him gently through his pants. She then moved her hand upwards, skimmed her fingers slightly above the waistband of his breeches, and traced a line on his abdomen with one jagged fingernail. Her touch was so light he should have hardly been able to feel it, but every point on his body that she touched felt as though he had been electrocuted, and he bit down on her neck a bit harder in response.

Able to wait no longer, he pulled his head away from her neck with some reluctance, relishing the way her myriad of freckles stood out on the raw, red patches of her throat. His eyes flickered down to her waist, conveying an unspoken question. She responded with an almost imperceptible nod, which was all the cue Jaime needed to start tugging at the laces keeping her breeches up. Brienne responded by bringing her trembling hands to mirror Jaime’s movements on his own pants. He finished unlacing her breeches, hooking a single finger into her smallclothes, and started sliding them down her legs. To aid his otherwise glacial pace, Jaime knelt before Brienne, using his teeth to mimic the movement of his finger, pulling down her clothes to leave her naked before him. He grazed her hip lightly with his teeth, and he heard a loud intake of breath above him, her hips bucking forwards of their own accord. Jaime grinned as the rest of her clothing hit the floor, looking up to observe her body in the flickering firelight.

She looked much as she had at Harrenhal, the first time he’d ever noticed his attraction to her. A bit more scarred, a bit more battered and bruised, but as long-legged and reminiscent of both the Maid and the Warrior as she’d been in his dreams. He surged upwards, capturing her slightly chapped lips in yet another searing kiss while Brienne began to slide his breeches down, blushing so hotly it was a wonder she didn’t burst right into flames, the bitter chill of winter be damned. Pulling away from her mouth reluctantly, Jaime discarded his trousers and smallclothes, kicking them away to the unknown ether where the rest of their clothes were currently residing.

Loathe to disrupt the quiet solemnity of the moment by speaking at a normal volume, Jaime whispered, “It seems, ser, that we would profit from the use of a bed, hm?” Brienne smiled bashfully, turning her face downwards as she led him towards the bed. Jaime spun her around so that her back was to the bed, all but tackling her onto the soft fur blankets. Brienne let out a little grunt of surprise, apparently startled by the fact that he could, in fact, throw her down the way he had promised her he could so many years ago. As if clairvoyant, Jaime leaned down and growled, “I told you I was strong enough,” before claiming her mouth with his own once more. As his hands began to drift downwards, Brienne reached out and grasped for the candle set near her bed, in an attempt to put it out.

Jaime briefly paused his ministrations to look at her grumpily, and inquire as to what in the Seven Hells was so pressing about the damn candle. Looking even younger than her years, Brienne responded, “I know that I am not- that is to say, I’m not the kind of woman you want to...Septa Roelle said that all women are the same in the dark. If you give me a moment-”

Unable to stomach another moment of her self-deprecation for fear that his heart might actually split in two, rage gathered unbidden on his brow as he imagined the shriveled hag who had told _his_ Brienne that she was unworthy of being worshipped. “What would a _septa,_ of all people, know about the wants of men? In any case, I would see you ser, see your blushes,” as he kissed her cheeks, moving down her body, pointing out areas of particular interest as he went, “your freckles,” as he ran his teeth down to her collarbone, “the arms that defended me so well this past night,” skimming his lips down her right arm and kissing the back of her hand, “the parts of you that no other man has ever touched,” as he swirled his scorching hot tongue around her nipple, tugging it lightly with his teeth. Spellbound, Brienne watched as he kissed his way down her stomach, eventually settling between her legs.

He gripped her right thigh in his hand, pressing kisses to it as he mumbled thanks to the Seven for her legs. Quicker than the Red Viper could have hoped to be, Jaime’s mouth was suddenly probing the most intimate part of her body, the wet heat making her hips shift backwards. He let out a low growl, holding her thigh tighter and pressing her to his mouth more insistently. Helpless against the onslaught, and fairly shocked as well, she could do naught more than press her head to the pillow and attempt to muffle her screams with her hand. Brienne had, of course, heard of the act from the whores who had frequented Renly’s camp, but it had never been talked of as something that men often did willingly. Then again, as Jaime would say, there simply were no men quite like him. At that moment, Jaime noticed that Brienne had brought her hand up over her mouth. Reluctantly disengaging from the task at present, he looked up, and took her hand in his, removing it, growling, “I would hear you, ser. I want every soul in Winterfell to know that you are _mine._ ” With that, he resumed his previous attentions, and as if on cue, Brienne shrieked her pleasure to the heavens. If anyone in the Great Hall had a question about what the pair had been up to when they left, they certainly didn’t any longer.  

Brienne thought idly that she should have been somewhat more reticent to allow him into her bed, especially considering her station, but as Jaime brought a finger to join his mouth and crooked it _just so_ , she found she couldn’t be bothered to care all that much. After a few minutes of Jaime’s most…diligent ministrations, Brienne was overcome with a surge of pleasure so powerful that she nearly blacked out, stars exploding behind her eyelids as her back arched off the bed. Jaime held onto her as she writhed, only releasing her once her body went slack.

She sat up, leaning on trembling arms to reach for his manhood, in an attempt to pleasure him with her hands, the way she’d seen some of the more daring whores do to their patrons out in the open. Sensing her intentions, Jaime arrested her hand’s movement with his own, causing Brienne’s eyes to widen with the fear that she had done something wrong. Jaime crawled back up her body, locking eyes with her once again. To allay her fears, he explained, “If you touch me, sweetling, this shall be over before it is begun. Would you-that is, could I-”

With Jaime lost for words ( _had_ the world actually ended?), it was Brienne’s turn to exercise her psychic abilities, answering the question he could not verbalize, “Yes, gods, _please_ , I need you inside me!” She instantly blushed from the roots of her hair down to the swell of her meager breasts. Jaime knew that he would never be able to see her blush again without this image in his mind’s eye, and he didn’t imagine that he would regret it. Grinning roguishly, he replied, “Your wish is my command,” before positioning his tip at her entrance. Mindful of her maidenhead, he pushed in ever so slightly, and it took all his willpower (and thinking about his Aunt Genna) to not finish there and then. He stuttered out, “So wet-so tight, _gods, Brienne,_ ” before her screams joined his in a cacophony that rang loudly down the hallway. He pushed into her sheath, slowly, deliberately. It was a bit painful, a bit bloody at first, but between incoherent screams and the nails she had somehow come to be raking down Jaime’s back, Brienne could not mentally reconcile this ecstasy with the cumbersome duty her septa had warned her of.

Brienne dug her nails further into Jaime’s back, gripping at his shoulders, and goaded him to _speed up, for the love of the Seven_. Ever obliging, Jaime acquiesced, his hand which had been drifting over the flat planes of her body, came to rest at her clit, where he traced insistent circles, as he thrust in and out of her. Within moments, she was once again sailing over the edge with Jaime right behind her – legend has it that everyone two floors above and below their chambers could hear them screaming the other’s name.  

Jaime collapsed atop Brienne, rolling to the side as they both panted for breath. Turning towards her, he tucked a sweaty piece of hair behind her ear, and whispered, “I love you, wench.” Already half asleep, Brienne mumbled, “Love you, too, Jaime,” her bashfulness succumbing to exhaustion along with her body as she drifted to sleep. Jaime pulled the blankets over them as gracefully as he could, then shifted onto his back, overwhelmed by the gravity of what they had just done. He had dishonored her, the purest thing in this wretched, ugly world. He cared naught what people thought of him, but Brienne had a tender heart, easily bruised, and the words of others cut her to the quick, try though she did to hide it.

Brienne unknowingly interrupted his internal panic by making a small snuffling noise in her sleep, burrowing deeper into the pillow to fend off the cold, as her collarbones were still exposed to the chilly Northern air. A surge of protectiveness rose in Jaime, a tidal wave that would crush anyone who would insult _his_ lady. It was with this thought that he pulled the blankets up over her shoulders, turning so that her back was pressed flush up against his front. He wrapped his stump around her waist, and joined her in peaceful oblivion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I guess that despite my common sense, I will be turning this into a whole fix-it, so let me know if y'all have any suggestions. (Also this was the first sex scene I've ever written, tell me how I did?)


	4. A Walk (of Shame) to Remember

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of fluff in which Jaime struggles to get breakfast for his wench, in honor of this one shot becoming a whole Situation™️

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all the reviews! They actually do motivate me to write faster, hence this lil transition chapter. Normally it takes me a month to write anything, but you guys are so great I work faster for y'all :)

Jaime, whose body had become accustomed to rising early during his long weeks trekking to Winterfell, was the first to wake the next morning. Much to his shock, he found that he had not suffered one nightmare while lying next to Brienne. Over the course of the night, they had shifted so that he was on his back, Brienne draped over him like another blanket, protective even in sleep. Although Jaime would have been content to lay in this bed forever, his body (which was currently suffering an acute case of elbow-to-the-bladder), had other plans.  

As carefully as he could, he extricated himself from Brienne’s full-body sprawl, checking to make sure that she was still asleep. Satisfied that her breathing remained even, Jaime devoted himself to the task of silently retrieving a full set of clothing. In last night’s urgency, they had strewn articles of clothing all over the chamber. Too groggy to even begin to sort out whose clothing was whose, Jaime donned the first complete set of clothing that he could possibly find. As it happened, while the pants were his, the shirt was certainly Brienne’s. His bladder was demanding attention rather insistently, however, and it _was_ just a shirt. _It was not as though anyone would notice._ Rather convinced by his own argument, Jaime half-stumbled down the hall to the privy, and was remarkably more awake by the time he had washed up.

Overtaken by a rush of ambition, he decided to bring Brienne breakfast in her chambers, no mean feat for a one-handed knight. Still clad in Brienne’s shirt, Jaime rushed down to the Great Hall, eager to return with their repast before she awoke. In his haste, he was able to evade the scrutiny of the gossiping scullery maids, but was not quite elusive enough for Sansa Stark, who he nearly ran into as he entered the Hall. Inclining his head, he directed a perfunctory, “My Lady,” in her general direction as he attempted to sidestep her in a bid for the serving tables. Not one to be circumvented quite so easily, Sansa stepped back into his line of sight, arching an eyebrow in judgmental bemusement. He knew he was well and truly caught when she fixated on his chest for a moment, tilting her head as she scrutinized him. With a spark in her eyes that had not been seen in quite some time, Sansa remarked with faux innocence, “I do hope you had a… _pleasant_ evening, Ser Jaime. Please tell Ser Brienne that I won’t require her services until later today, should you happen to see her.” Lost for words for the second time in twelve hours, Jaime merely gaped as Sansa breezed past him, leaving him open-mouthed before the assembled personages of the Great Hall. Fortunately for him, most of the occupants of the castle were currently nursing massive hangovers, and were therefore curled up in their own dark corners of the keep.

Giantpain, apparently unaffected by the vast quantities of alcohol he had consumed the night before, was wailing to anyone who would listen that small girls just couldn’t satisfy him anymore, now that he had seen “the big woman.” Jaime dearly wished that he had not forgotten to put his golden hand back on, savoring the mental image of cracking the wilding across the face with it. Jaime was also in something of a rush, after all, the reminder that Brienne was, at this very moment naked and in their bed, spurring him on. He nearly propelled himself to the front of the line, hemming, hawing, and tapping his foot impatiently until those ahead of him let him go before them out of sheer irritation. He felt slightly bad, but he could not, would not, risk being waylaid by Giantpain.

He requested two plates, one for him and the other ostensibly for his brother, who could consider his breakfast repayment for humiliating Brienne last night. As quickly as he’d come, Jaime was on his way out again, balancing two trays full of what was generously termed food by virtue of Winterfell’s limited stores. He carried his unwieldy cargo with exactly as much grace as one would expect a one-handed man to, frequently having to stop to regain his balance. During one such stop, he encountered a vase full of winter roses, blue as Brienne’s eyes when the snow reflected off them. He managed to maneuver a handful onto Brienne’s tray, whipping his head to the side when he heard someone clear their throat next to him.

His brother stood before him, his arms crossed and a knowing smirk on his face. Jaime cursed himself for forgetting that Tyrion had lost the ability to be hungover by the time he’d hit twenty. In a tone not unlike Sansa Stark’s, the dwarf mused, “You know, it was the funniest thing, I went in search of breakfast this morning, and was informed that my dear, thoughtful brother had already procured it for me. But here you are, closer to the Maidenvault than to my chambers!” His hand had flown to his chest, and his mismatched eyes widened in faux outrage; Jaime felt a rather stirring urge to punch him.

Tyrion gave up the façade almost immediately, too thrilled that his brother had finally found another woman to love to tease him in earnest (for now). Waving Jaime along, he urged, “Go to your lady, she’ll surely be famished by now. And probably missing her shirt.” Jaime shot a helpless look at the two trays, loathe to ask for help, but knowing that even with Tyrion’s slower gait, his aid would surely speed up the endeavor. Taking pity on his older brother, Tyrion dutifully held out his hands for a tray, which Jaime handed him. Muttering about how this matchmaking business was utter malarkey and he had to do _everything_ in this relationship, Tyrion hurried forward. As the two Lannisters hastened down the corridor, Jaime corrected, “And that’s my lady _knight_ to you, little brother.”

When they finally arrived at the door to Brienne’s chambers, Jaime lowered his arms to allow Tyrion to deposit the second tray into them without disrupting the food or the flowers. His little brother pouted, inclining his head towards the door, inquiring, “Can’t I just stop in and say hello? Ask how she’s doing…how _you’re_ doing?” If Jaime had a hand free at that moment, he certainly would have smacked Tyrion, but alas, all he could do was glower at him, whispering at him to “Get _lost_!” between clenched teeth. With a grin that reminded him why people referred to his sibling as the Imp, Tyrion was gone and Jaime was left to confront the doorknob. _Oh, Seven_ _Hells._

After a rather unseemly amount of contortion, Jaime finally managed to open the door without spilling anything, which he counted as one of his greatest accomplishments to date. He was rewarded with the sight of Brienne, who had stirred at the small commotion he had made attempting to enter her chamber. Their gazes locked, Brienne sleep-ruffled and evidently confused, Jaime gaping at her and extremely harried from the tribulations of his breakfast-procurement expedition. Brienne broke their fragile silence by bursting into hysterical laughter, tears of mirth springing to her eyes as she clutched the sheets to her chest with one hand and her stomach with the other. Jaime recovered his wits, bringing the trays to their final destination on the bed, admiring her carefree laughter. Looking down at her in bemusement, he inquired as to the source of the hilarity that had gripped her so thoroughly. In between laughs, she responded, “I was just imagining my septa’s face, had she been told that one day, _Jaime Lannister_ would be bringing me breakfast in bed, clad in my shirt no less!” The man in question couldn’t help but laugh as well, her delight seemingly contagious. He couldn’t help but compare this moment to his trysts with Cersei – they had never laughed once while together, every moment imbued with a sense of urgency, of potentially impending doom, but not one moment of lightness among his memories.

When her laughter finally faded to intermittent giggles, Jaime picked a flower up off the tray, tucking it behind her ear to rest near her temple. She caught his hand in hers, pressing a kiss to his palm. He responded by pressing a firm kiss to her mouth, whispering slyly, “It appears that I am rather overdressed for this morning, wench.” She helped him tug his shirt over his head, as she had the night before, this time without the myriad of insecurities swirling behind her clear blue eyes. As she sat and watched, he began pulling his breeches down. He noticed her worrying her bottom lip with her teeth, her eyes darkening with lust. To that end, he made something of a show removing his trousers, watching her become more wound up as he finally divested himself of the offending garment.

With that, swung a leg up over her torso to straddle her, pressing her back into the pillows to claim her mouth more voraciously. Ever a quick study, Brienne brought her hips up to rut against his, their legs tangling despite the layer of blankets between them.

Suddenly, a shrill cry: “Jaime, the food!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was gonna have Brienne wake up and wonder where Jaime was, but ya know...fuck that. Anyway, let me know if there's something you're just dying to see. I know there wasn't a lot of Brienne in this chapter, but it's setting up for the next part.


	5. Can't Spell Insecurities Without U and I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Brienne talk (and have more sex). Meanwhile, Cersei plots.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW at the bottom! I also wanted to thank everyone who reviewed and gave kudos from the bottom of my heart, you're all the reason that this is the most quickly updated fic I've ever written, and you all mean the world to me <3\. (P.S. Should I give up on writing sex scenes? I feel like they're horribly awkwardly written, but that might just be me.)

It was only Brienne’s lightning-fast reflexes that prevented the trays from tipping off the side of the bed completely, as she scrabbled about the sheets to hold them fast, dragging them back into place. Jaime grimaced at the sight of the gray, watery oatmeal, poor fare compared to last night’s feast. He saw Brienne eyeing it warily as well, her years as a soldier rendering her more loathe to complain than Jaime. He had no compunctions about saving her from the dregs of their unsavory repast, gripping the trays to relocate them to the roughly-hewn dresser, where they at least could not disrupt the pair’s more… _involved_ physical activities whilst abed.

Brienne halted his motion momentarily by placing one of her large hands on the tray holding the winter roses, picking the ice-blue flowers up and twirling them about in her fingers. The one Jaime had placed in her hair seemed to droop in concentration along with her, the twin orbs next to them scrutinizing the blooms. By the time Jaime managed to get both of the trays onto another surface and turned back to Brienne, she was still considering the small bouquet as though lost in a memory. Based on the firm lines of her mouth, the hardening of her normally placid blue eyes, it was clearly an incident she would not care to remember. Placing a gentle hand on her arm, feeling a bit ridiculous due to his nakedness, he called her name softly. Her eyes snapped up, glazed with tears she was clearly attempting to suppress, blinking rapidly and avoiding his gaze. Jaime was not yet sure who he had to kill, but he was certainly going to find out. Running his thumb over her shoulder, he questioned, “Brienne?” Her eyes finally met his, a maelstrom of emotions he could not quite decipher. Completely out of his depth and unsure how to proceed, Jaime prodded further, his desperation increasing as he rambled: “What’s the matter, sweetling? Do you not like the flowers? I just saw them and they reminded me of your eyes – I can put them back if they’re not to your tastes, they were sitting in a vase so they were already going to die, I didn’t even cut them myself, has something upset you, I can kill anyone you like-”

Brienne cut him off with a weak chuckle and a shake of the head, placing her index finger against his lips. He pressed a light kiss to her finger, moving it from his lips to hold her hand. He entangled their fingers as he joined her in the bed, sheltered from the Northern cold beneath the sheets. _Perhaps there was some wisdom to the wench’s obsessive firewood maintenance._ (Not that he would ever tell her that.) They sat together a moment in silence as Brienne contemplated Jaime, the flickering of the now-dying fire on his body outlining the hard planes of his chest and shoulders. He had recently complained of being less golden now that he had greyed somewhat, but Brienne found that the warmth in his eyes as he looked at her far outshone anything so insignificant as hair. _How could he ever understand, even half-dead and covered in grime, he was more beautiful than any man alive,_ whispered a familiar voice in the back of her mind. _How would you know what I’m capable of if you don’t try, wench?_ replied a voice that sounded suspiciously like Jaime. At that moment, Brienne would rather have fought another army of the undead than discuss this particular memory, but nevertheless, she started, “When I was four-and-ten, my father betrothed me to a landed knight, Ser Ronnet Connington. I suppose my father thought that being below us in station would suffice to keep him to his manners, such as they were. As it happened, he took one look at me, threw the rose he’d brought at my feet, and told me it was the only thing I’d ever get from him. Not my worst betrothal, but certainly not my best.”

Despite her attempt at levity, Brienne’s voice had become tighter as she spoke, holding back the emotions she had restrained for so many years, repeating her father’s adage, “Words are wind,” until she half-believed it. Her eyes scanned Jaime desperately for a reaction, but in vain, for his face seemed to have turned entirely to stone. She wasn’t even certain he was breathing. The only indication she had that he was even present was his ever-tightening grip on her hand, the tips of her pale fingers turning white from the interruption of blood flow. Suddenly, a grin spread across Jaime’s face; it was not the affectionate smile Brienne had become used to, nor the smirk that overtook his features when he had made a particularly witty rejoinder – this grin was wolfish, all hard lines and _danger_ and _the Kingslayer_. Taken aback by his reaction, Brienne questioned, “Jaime? What is it?” Jaime responded, enunciating each word through the rage evident in the set of his jaw, “Did you know that the Cuntingtons are bannermen to House Lannister? I look forward to meeting him on the field of battle, and impressing upon him with steel the importance of addressing highborn ladies with respect, particularly _my_ lady.”

Brienne gave a small huff of laughter at his vehemence, which was abruptly halted when she realized the meaning of his words, asking, “Whatever do you mean, _meeting him on the field of battle_? Why on earth would you be fighting him?” Jaime responded with an air of faux levity, “Well, I assume that Cersei will be rallying the Lannister bannermen to her cause when our army marches south to take King’s Landing, seems as though it would be rather lax not to.” Brienne noticed how his lips tightened over Cersei’s name, try as he did to suppress it. She let the rose fall from her fingers as she placed one hand on his shoulder, tightening her grip around his fingers with the other. “Jaime, I…I know you did what you felt was right, coming North to fight the Others, but fighting her, fighting the last war…you don’t need to prove yourself anymore.”

She stumbled over her words, fingers digging into his shoulder with the force of the words she was holding back. Fear of losing him overwhelmed Brienne, her cerulean eyes widening with fear, as Jaime hastened to backpedal for all he was worth. Rage still bubbled in his stomach, and Jaime wanted nothing more than to punch a few teeth out of Red Ronnet’s idiot mouth, but Brienne was more important than his violently protective urges at the moment. He reassured her ardently, “If you tell me to stay, I will, anything you ask of me is yours.” His emerald-green eyes blazed with the sincerity of his words, simmering over her skin, sinking into her very soul. Her breath caught in her throat, and she whispered, “Stay with me,” so quietly he could barely hear it, but it was enough. _Stay with me. Stay with me. Stay with me._

Jaime wrapped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her into a bruising kiss, only pulling away when they were too out of breath to continue. He wrapped his good hand around her muscled waist, coaxing her into his lap to settle between his legs. Trailing kisses down the juncture between her throat and shoulder, Jaime skidded his hand further down her body to rest between her thighs, slipping his fingers into her folds, already wet for him. She shuddered into him, hands gripping his stump, which was still wrapped around her. He smiled unconsciously on her skin at the unassuming manner with which she touched the (lack of) limb there – _strong, but gentler than Cersei_. Not that Cersei had ever come within spitting distance of the thing without his golden hand attached.

He moved his hand to slip his finger into her sheath, tighter and hotter and wetter than he could stand. Although she was no longer a maid, Jaime wanted to go slowly, give her time to adjust to this new facet of their relationship. While they were no strangers to being naked as their namedays in front of one another, both physically and emotionally, Brienne had never truly been touched by a man before, and-

Jaime’s musings were abruptly interrupted when _Brienne_ flipped them around, pinning both arms above his head as she straddled him, a sheepish look overtaking her features, though her eyes sparkled with contentment.

 “Was that alright?” she asked, loosening her grip on his arms momentarily.

“Wench, that was more than alright,” he growled in reply, bucking his hips up into her, desperate for friction. She aligned his shaft with her opening, lowering herself onto him one torturous inch at a time as he stretched her walls, causing them both to let out extremely loud moans as they clutched at each other. Those slumbering their hangovers away in the adjacent rooms did _not_ appreciate the _arousal_ they received.

Ignorant to the discontentment they had caused, and indeed, to anything other than one another, Jaime and Brienne continued to scream their pleasure seemingly to all of Winterfell.  

Brienne gave an experimental roll of her hips against his as Jaime hissed, letting go of his arms so that she could support herself above him, avoiding placing the whole of her weight on him. Jaime, noticed what she was doing even through the haze of his arousal, taking her right hand. Through clenched teeth he gritted out, “Give me _all_ of you, wench, I want you, I need you, _I need you._ ” Brienne had no choice but to acquiesce, letting the full force of her muscular body push her onto Jaime, thrusting together again and again. It was an embarrassingly short time before they both came so hard they saw stars, and _why would the stars want to shine on such as me?_ Jaime finally understood, laying sated and panting for breath in Brienne’s arms, his salvation, his hope, his lo- “Lady Sansa!” Brienne interrupted his thoughts once again (honestly, had the wench no manners? He’d have to bring it up at some point), interrupting their well-earned post-coital daze. She started flailing her limbs about in a completely uncoordinated fashion, attempting to free herself from their hopelessly tangled bedsheets. He heard rather than saw her fall unceremoniously to the floor, as he leaned his head on his hands and grinned, quipping, “Not exactly the person whose name I _want_ you shouting in our bed, but alright.”

Brienne propelled herself off the floor, rushing around while attempting to locate her own breeches, which had to be _somewhere_ in the room, but maybe had been thrown into the fire, and- Jaime laughed as he observed her languidly from the bed, looking quite a sight with her maidenblood mingled with his seed still staining the inside of her thighs, hair like she’d just been through a windstorm (or well-fucked). She slipped her tunic over her head, noticing the staining all over her legs. With a huff, she dipped a cloth in a basin of water, cleaning herself up before continuing her quest for pants. She made the mistake of straying too close to Jaime, who hooked his right arm around her and pulled her back onto him, causing the air to rush out of both their lungs. Tilting her chin up to look at him, she admonished, “Jaime, I have to go, Lady Sansa will be wondering where I am!” Chuckling, Jaime ran his fingers through her mussed hair, reassuring her, “She ran into me while I was out to get breakfast, and suffice to say, she won’t be looking for you until later this afternoon.” He added with rather more sincerity, “I hope you don’t mind,” instinctively, not used to being able to broadcast his lo- _personal life, nighttime proclivities, Jaime you’ll scare her away_. Brienne gave his chest a small smack and admonished him for letting her panic, but reassured him that she didn’t truly mind, and certainly didn’t exactly resist when he pulled her up to meet him for a kiss. Some five minutes later, a hapless maidservant walked down the hall, under orders to empty the chamber pots despite her residual hangover. As she made her way down the corridor, she heard screams echoing down the corridor, shouts “ _Brienne_ ” and “ _Jaime_ ” resounding from one end of the hall to the next. Flushing red as a beet, she fled back to the kitchens to report to her fellow maids – she was owed at least fifty coppers.

A week later, one of Cersei’s own maids was ushered into her solar, clutching a raven’s message. As she walked in, the queen felt an odd twinge in her belly, ignoring it as she reached for the message, breaking the seal and unrolling it.

  _Your Grace,_

_The war against the Others has been won; the armies of Winterfell and the Daenerys Targaryen are marching on King’s Landing. The girl herself sails for Blackwater Bay with her dragons. Tyrion is her Hand and marches with her army; Jaime remains as a guest of Sansa Stark. The Stark girl remains in Winterfell with her sworn sword, the lumbering beast of Tarth, no longer a maiden if rumor is to be believed._  

_Ever your faithful servant._

The pain in Cersei’s stomach intensified with each word she read; she gritted her teeth, crumpling the paper in her hand to keep her composure. Though she was in pain, it was not difficult to deduce what her spy had meant to imply– Jaime was (most unfathomably) _fucking_ Brienne the _Beauty_ , what a ludicrous joke. She then thought of Maggy, _another, younger, more beautiful_ , and suddenly the joke was not quite so hilarious any longer, nor was her pain so easily ignored. She called for a Kingsguard from her seat, her voice tight with pain, unable to stand up. In the most imperious voice she could summon, Cersei ordered, “Summon Ser Bronn of the Blackwater. Be quick about it too.”

            The sellsword arrived within a few minutes, for which she was grateful, unsure how long she could remain upright should the cramps continue; she feared the worst, passing a hand over her belly. ( _Her last chance at a perfect child, slipping away._ ) He bowed in that awfully plebian way of his, asking, “What can I do for you, your Grace?” ( _She felt the blood, dripping, draining away from her_ ). Squaring her jaw, Cersei issued him his orders, “Kill the Tart of Tarth, and my idiot twin brother, as well, if it comes to it. I assure you, you will be _well_ rewarded for your troubles: Riverrun, and a lady wife of your choosing.” Bronn nodded, bowing and departing swiftly before she could order his head summarily removed from his shoulders - the Queen’s mercurial nature as of late was the worst-kept secret in the Red Keep.  

As she sat upon her ornate chair, blood flowing from between her legs and puddling beneath her Lannister-crimson skirts, Cersei vowed: _They will pay._  

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: semi-graphic description of miscarriage 
> 
> Hey loves! Looks like I finally found some plot amidst the fluff, praise be. As always, please review, each one really does motivate me more than you could know!  
> I'll be getting back to all my lovely reviewers this week while I'm on vacation (granted that the internet doesn't give out on me)!


	6. Pin the Tail on the Assassin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Domestic bliss in Winterfell with our two favorite knights.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Please read]: Hey guys! I didn't get to respond to reviews because I actually did not have my laptop this week, this entire chapter was handwritten and then typed up when I got back. It's kind of my baby, and I'd really appreciate you guys leaving a review, especially as I spent literally my entire vacation writing it!

Jaime blinked as the pale tendrils of Northern morning light flickered onto his face through the shutters. He removed his right arm from where it was slung across Brienne’s waist, laying on his back to enjoy the newly-discovered novelty of languid mornings in bed, where neither of the bed’s occupants feared being found. Brienne turned in her sleep to wrap her own arm around him, and he took the opportunity to admire her unabashed, her fine golden lashes fanning over her cheek, the smoothed lines of her face belying her youth. A familiar pang shot through him ( _I’m not good enough for her, I’m ruining her just by being here-_ ). As if able to sense his thoughts, which Jaime wasn’t entirely sure she wasn’t, Brienne burrowed her face deeper into him, tightening her grip on his bare chest. Though the Northern weather made it more prudent to keep clothed while abed, they were perpetually unable to summon the energy to do so, which in combination with their vigorous exercise before bed saw them resorting to extreme cuddling to keep warm (not that either of them complained).

            Jaime couldn’t remember a time in his life that he had been so genuinely happy. From a purely logistical point of view, this made sense: the White Walkers had been defeated, he had made up with his brother, and the departure of Jon Stark (Aegon Targaryen? Jaegon Stargaryen? Whatever his name was)’s army had greatly improved the quality of the rations. The puzzling bit was that the contentment that had settled deep in Jaime’s bones had been there while he was sitting around the fire with Brienne before the Battle of Winterfell, as they reminisced over watery porridge, even while fighting White Walkers while back to back, her reassuring presence looming behind him. The truth was that the source of his happiness was Brienne – a light in his darkness that even the lingering shade of Cersei could not snuff out. He skimmed the healed skin of his stump lightly over her back, recalling the tenderness with which she had treated the injuries to it after the battle, the ghosts of her fingers on the sensitive skin there causing a pleasurable shiver to ripple through his body.

            Since Brienne was laying on top of him, Jaime’s movement roused her slightly. She rolled off him, still subconsciously insecure about the heft of her form. Jaime, however, lamented the lack of the heat of her body, the reassuring weight of her. He groaned, only half-joking when he whined, “Wench, get back here. Surely you wouldn’t sentence a man to die of cold in his own bed.” Wiping the sleep out of her eyes with the back of her hands, Brienne retorted, “I believe that if you consult Lady Sansa’s records, you’ll find that this is _my_ room.”

            Jaime chuckled, conceding, “We can call it our room, then, He bopped her on the nose, propping himself up on his arm to consider her with faux seriousness, quipping “This is now the second time you’ve mentioned Lady Sansa in our bed. Is there something you’d like to confess to me, wench? Are you carrying a secret torch for the Lady of Winterfell?” Brienne pushed his face away from hers, though there was no real force behind the motion. She responded, “Not unless I’ve suddenly become your brother, which would make our current situation more than a little awkward, don’t you think?” With a growl, Jaime rolled himself back on top of her, using his arms to support himself above her body, gritting out, “You’re getting awfully mouthy as of late, let’s put it to good use.” He crashed his mouth into hers, devouring her lips possessively, as Brienne rolled her hips up into him, licking into his mouth with her tongue. Breaking the kiss, she coaxed Jaime down onto his back, his hands feeling for any skin he could reach as she shifted down his body. She took hold of his length, the light pressure of her calloused hand on him nearly driving him to madness as she smiled apprehensively at him. Without warning, she lowered her head, licking a stripe from base to tip, as she desperately tried to remember what she had overheard camp followers whispering about this particular act. She supposed she had recalled something either extremely correct or extremely incorrect, based on the way Jaime instantly shot up, shock evident in his wide eyes. Her question was quickly answered when she saw how blown his pupils had become, shining black in the early morning light. Lowering her head once again, she swirled her tongue around the tip of him before taking his length into her mouth, inch by agonizing inch. It wasn’t her intention at all that her gradual descent should increase his pleasure, unaware of such tactics as she was, but the manner in which Jaime grasped at the sheets, screaming _damn, damn, damn_ interspersed with a litany of her name did not go unnoticed. She analyzed the sensation of his hardness stretching her throat, deciding that it was not so disgusting as she had feared, Jaime’s evident pleasure heightening her own, dampened only by her near-obsessive efforts to cover her with her lips. She’d heard one too many “horror stories” from fellow soldiers to risk even a hint of her teeth to touch, especially since he was always so gentle with her.

Tentatively, she began to bob her head back and forth, speeding up once she became comfortable with the rather odd motion. Jaime seemed to be getting impossibly harder, and she felt as though he would burst at any second now, though she wondered if she flattered herself. Gasping, Jaime hoarsely ordered, “Get off, by all the Seven Hells, Brienne!” She sprung up like she’d been burned, turning bright red with embarrassment as she asked frantically, “Did I do something wrong? Did I hurt you?” Jaime sat up, leaning towards Brienne to pull her up his body as he asserted, “Wench, I’m so hard I could shatter Valyrian steel right now, but I’m going to come inside you, and that won’t happen with your mouth on me for one more second.”

He slipped his fingers in between their bodies, felt the slick dampness already gathering between Brienne’s thighs and groaned, “By the Seven, already _so wet_ for me, Brienne.” She couldn’t resist the urge to tease him, “You’re not normally this religious, I didn’t even know you believed in the Seven,” as she lowered herself onto him. He placed his stump lightly on her cheek, telling her earnestly, “I didn’t until I met you, for who could not believe in the Maiden, the Mother, the Father, the Warrior, who had ever met you?” Her blood turning to fire in her veins, Brienne leaned down to kiss him as he grasped her meager breasts in his hand. A few short thrusts later, Jaime spilled inside of her, rubbing fast, purposeful circles on her clit until she came, and they both gave way to the sweet embrace of slumber in each other’s arms.

For the second time that day, Jaime was awoken by the sunlight pouring onto his face, significantly brighter than it had been before. Idly, he wondered if they had (once again) missed breakfast. Not that he could be arsed to care much, with Brienne a warm, content weight in his arms, a surprisingly heavy sleeper for one so accustomed to life on the road. In any case, he wasn’t much distressed by this trait, largely because Jaime thought that everything about Brienne was perfect, even the infuriating bits. Speaking of infuriating bits, the other reason for Jaime’s appreciation of Brienne’s tendency towards uninterrupted slumber was her inability to sit still when she deemed some duty or other to be in need of her immediate attention (which was always). If he had his way, Jaime would keep them abed all day, with short breaks for food only when absolutely necessary, banal meetings be damned. Unfortunately, Brienne did not share this particular philosophy, insisting on leaving bed before noon like some kind of incredible busybody. Of course, Jaime did his level best to weaken her resolve, and neither one of them could raise a protest about his methods.

            Brienne snuffled, the louder, more rapid beats of Jaime’s heart rousing her. While she probably could have slept through the Battle of Winterfell had she not known it was occurring, the slightest change in Jaime’s breathing or heartbeat could wake her within mere moments. Every time he’d suffered a nightmare in the past few weeks they had been haring a bed, he awoke to the feeling of Brienne’s strong arms around him, supporting him while she whispered sleepy, comforting platitudes in his ear. Suffice to say, Jaime could not recall having been so well-rested since the day he’d driven his sword through Aerys Targaryen’s back.

            Brienne blinked blearily, shooting up as she realized how bright the room had become, throwing the thick blankets off as she steadfastly ignored Jaime’s grasping hand. She began scrambling about to locate her clothing, which had become an everyday occurrence. _One of these days_ , she swears (as she does each morning), _I’m going to muster the patience to place my clothes in their proper places before letting Jaime have his way with me_. Something told her that day would be extremely long in coming, if it ever did.

            “My, my, what a hurry you are in, my wench. One would almost think that the ever-dutiful Ser Brienne of Tarth is running late,” Jaime’s voice rang out from the bed as he lounged, lit up by the sun, more golden than all the treasures of Casterly Rock. Narrowly resisting the urge to climb back into bed with him, Brienne pointed her recently-recovered shoes accusingly at Jaime, scolding, “And whose fault is that?” Before he could tempt her back to bed, she hurried out the door, jamming the boots gracelessly onto her feet as Jaime’s laugh echoed behind her. Realizing that her shirt was still undone, she shot a quick glance down both sides of the hallway to make sure that no-one was present, and laced her shirt. Devoid of Jaime’s warmth, she wrapped her heavy fur cloak tighter around herself, bracing against the Northern cold seeping into the walls. Brienne hastened to Lady Sansa’s solar, thanking the Seven that she had not encountered Tormund on the way, who was still lamenting the fact that Jaime had “stolen” her away, as though there had ever been a competition.

            She arrived at her destination, flushed and out of breath from haste, using the moment between her tentative knock and Sansa’s response of “Enter,” to compose herself, and attempted to use a piece of her cloak as a fan to cool herself. Apparently, she had not done a very good job of it, because the moment she caught sight of Brienne, the Lady of Winterfell let out a very undignified girlish giggle, clapping a hand over her mouth once she realized what she had done. Sansa pointed at Brienne’s shirt, whispering despite the fact that they were the only two people in the room, “Ser, your shirt is fastened incorrectly.” Sure enough, in her haste to escape Jaime’s clutches, she had laced her shirt incorrectly, the two sides uneven and clearly done up hurriedly. Blushing fiercely, she pulled the cloak tighter around her, settling primly in the seat across from Sansa. Smothering a laugh, Sansa apologized, “I am sorry if I caused offense, I don’t know what came over me.” Brienne was quick to assure her that no offense had been taken, a touch of melancholy settling in as she watched Sansa’s expression settle back into her usual mask, making her look old beyond her years.

            Sansa and Brienne shared a bond which made very little sense to the casual observer, one petite where the other was overwhelmingly large, one appearing as though picking up a sword would break her arm where the other was a fierce warrior. Despite these apparent dissimilarities, these two women who had been shaped so definitively by the horrors of war and come out the stronger had gained a keen understanding of one another, forged out of mutual respect and tempered with trust. Brienne was Sansa’s closest advisor and confidant, bar her own family. The same was true for Brienne, who had never had real female companionship, and recently found herself in need of some, despite Sansa’s own limited experience in dealing with men (who weren’t raging psychopaths).

            As they did every day, Sansa and Brienne conversed about the logistics of keeping Winterfell functioning, as the Wildlings along with most of the civilians of the North still resided behind the keep’s imposing gray walls. They also discussed the particulars of the rebuilding efforts, which had been in full swing for the past weeks since the battle, as well as the incredibly abrupt news that Daenerys Targaryen planned to depart for King’s Landing on the morrow. Brienne had frequently wondered why Sansa insisted upon keeping her abreast of these developments, as it was not common to share information beyond the necessary with one’s sworn sword, as far as she understood. After teasing her endlessly about her use of the word “abreast,” Jaime had suggested that the Lady Wolf valued Brienne’s input, “as well she _should_ ,” Jaime emphasized, as though it was clear as day. Brienne, however, was quite floored by the idea that Lady Sansa valued her beyond her (not inconsiderable) fighting abilities. Jaime spent the rest of the evening proving quite definitively that he, at least, kept her around for more than her ability to wield a (metal) sword.

            As their conversation came to a close, Brienne shifted awkwardly in her seat, looking for the words she needed to convey to her liege lady. After a long moment, she began, “I know that the Lannisters and the Starks…have not always been…allies or friends, and I want you to know that whatever, that is to say, what is between Jaime and myself will not alter my loyalties or my priorities – my duty to you-.” Placing a hand over the knight’s larger one, Sansa interrupted, “Brienne.” Aiming a calming look in the direction of her sworn sword, she continued, “You honor is unimpeachable, that much I would stake my life upon. And I expect your priorities to change, that is simply the nature of life. It is no longer you, me, and Podrick adrift in the winter – I am home, and safe because of you. I want you to live your life, even if it is with a Lannister.”

            Brienne’s eyes brimmed with tears as she rose from her seat, thanking Sansa for her words. As she turned to leave, Sansa piped up, “Ser Brienne?” The lady in question turned around, tilting her head quizzically in response. Sansa answered, her voice suffused with genuine warmth, “I am very glad that you are happy. I don’t believe I’ve ever met anyone who deserves it as much as you do.” With that she looked down again at her desk to sort through her papers, a clear dismissal.

            As Brienne stepped out into the hallway, she pulled the door closed behind her, leaning against it momentarily to process her lady’s words. In something of a daze, she began walking forwards automatically, and nearly strode straight into Tyrion. He staggered to avoid her mile-long legs, expression transitioning from disgruntled irritation to glee as he recognized his future goodsister. True, her and Jaime weren’t formally engaged as far as he could tell, but he had a feeling. “Ser Brienne,” he greeted, falling into step beside her. She inclined her head respectfully, returning his greeting as she proceeded more slowly down the corridor, allowing his stubby legs to keep apace with her. Additionally, she wanted to give this conversation as much time as possible to come to its conclusion before she arrived back at her rooms. She would have simply headed in a different direction, but she feared being gone for too long, since the last time she’d left Jaime alone too long, he had marched about the castle in his breeches and nothing else, demanding information regarding her whereabouts. It was a spectacle she had no desire to repeat, even if she’d had to try very hard to keep her disapproving glare from slipping into a full-bellied laugh all evening.

            “You know Ser, I’m rather cross with you at the moment,” Tyrion teased. “And why might that be, Lord Tyrion?” Brienne responded warily, too familiar with the dwarf’s clever tongue to allow her guard to drop. Unlike Jaime, Tyrion always had an agenda when he spoke, each word crafted to evoke exactly the reaction he intended. It was one of the many reasons why Brienne far preferred Jaime’s company to that of his brother, but she did occasionally enjoy Tyrion’s sparkling wit.

            He grinned up at her, and answered, “I have scarcely seen my dear bother these past weeks, and upon the rare occasion that I do, _you_ are all he seems capable of speaking about. Our fraternal bond is fraying as we speak!” The Imp’s green and blue eyes widened in mock sincerity as a red-hot flush spread from Brienne’s freckled cheeks to her throat. Brienne wondered why she seemed to be the one perpetually teased about her and Jaime. Everyone left him well alone, and it was utterly unfair. Clearing her throat, Brienne replied woodenly, “Your brother is free to do as he pleases, so you might try to be better company. Are you departing on the morrow with Daenerys, by any chance?” Tyrion affected hurt as he responded, “You wound me, Ser, but indeed I am.” “We shall be sorry to see you go,” Brienne responded sincerely, knowing that Jaime would feel his brother’s absence keenly.

            In an effort to turn the conversation further away from herself, Brienne questioned, “What did you need of Lady Sansa, something about your departure?” Instantly, she knew she’d inadvertently hit a nerve, judging by the way Tyrion’s entire face was overtaken by a fierce blush, which was extremely uncharacteristic of the generally crass man. Unlike Tyrion, she had no talent for drawing the truth out of people by guile; she made a mental note to consult with Jaime later.

            The inevitable could not be delayed forever, no matter how lowly Brienne walked. It was too late to change course by the time she realized that Tyrion was intent on following her to her destination – there were only two corridors between them and her and Jaime’s room, and it was approaching with more rapidity than she had hoped. Praying with all her might that Jaime was out of bed and dressed, despite the unlikelihood of such a scenario coming to pass, she came to a stop in front of the door. In a last-ditch effort to spare herself an eternity and a half of Tyrion’s crude japes, she tried, “Good day, Lord Tyrion,” bowing her head in an invitation to depart.

            Tyrion, who clearly refused to be disposed of thusly, inclined his head towards the door, remarking airily, “If you wouldn’t mind, good Ser, I haven’t seen my dearest sibling in so very long. It’s the chivalrous thing to do.” With a huff, Brienne opened the door, giving in to the inexorable reality of the situation – Tyrion would get his way eventually, and she hadn’t the energy at the moment to fight him. She breathed a sigh of relief as she turned her glance to the bed and did not see Jaime laying there, ostentatiously nude, as he so often was when waiting for her to return. The relief was short-lived, however, as Jaime himself called her name…from a massive tub in the middle of the room. How he’d found the time to track down a servant and have them lug the tub up _and_ fill it, Brienne couldn’t say, but he was rather persuasive when he wanted to be. Brienne tried to block Tyrion’s view of Jaime, as the man hollered, “Get in Brienne, just like the old days, ey?” At that precise moment, Tyrion finally succeeded in navigating around Brienne’s imposing legs, howling with laughter as he gasped out, “Do you mean to tell me that that rumor about the two of you in the baths of Harrenhal is true? Jaime, you sly dog!” Jaime’s head snapped to the side as he heard his brother’s voice. Based on the sheepish expression plastered all over Brienne’s features, Tyrion had invited himself along, and his Brienne was far too polite to refuse. Jaime, however, was possessed of no such deficit, and watching Brienne’s blush spread from her cheeks below the neck of her cloak drained his patience _that_ much faster. Pointing towards the door with his good hand, Jaime roared, “Get OUT, Tyrion!” Still chuckling and mumbling what was undoubtedly a lewd jape under his breath, the Imp made his exit. Looking Brienne’s tall figure up and down, Jaime’s emerald-green eyes darkened until they seemed nearly black. Without moving the arm he had used to shoo Tyrion, he beckoned her toward him, and growled, “Wench, if you’re not in here in the next five seconds, I’m going to come over there and drag you in myself.” Brienne intended to say something adequately obstinate in reply, truly she did, but she found herself mesmerized by a rivulet of water tracing the muscles of his upper arm, down his forearm, dripping off his finger. She felt the most absurd urge to lick the path it had left, her tongue peeking out from her cold lips as she contemplated.

            Jaime knew the look on her face all too well, a rakish grin overtaking his chiseled features. Brienne, for her part, did not come back to herself until Jaime rose a bit out of the water, as if to make good on his threat. Starting out of her reverie, Brienne began tearing her clothes off, dropping them haphazardly as she’d just sworn to herself just this morning that she would not do. She padded gently to the bath, feeling Jaime’s hungry eyes on her the whole way. Lowering herself into the water, she felt the steam rise around her, much like Harrenhal. Unlike that bath so long ago, however, Jaime surged towards her immediately, wrapping her in his strong arms and pulling her in for a bruising kiss, as though they’d been parted for years as opposed to an hour, at best. Brienne could not claim to mind as she returned his affections with equal enthusiasm, sliding her hand down to squeeze the curve of his ass. He ground into her, letting her know exactly how very _hard_ that hour of separation had been for him. They were both on their knees in the tub, water splashing in obscene amounts all over the stone floor of the room. Breaking their kiss, Jaime hooked his arms underneath Brienne’s knees, maneuvering her to sit at the edge of the tub, legs dangling in the water and spread wide before him. He licked his lips as if contemplating a particularly tempting feast before thrusting his tongue into her, licking up and down and in circles around her clit in turn. Brienne shuddered into him, the combination of the cold floor, the hot water, and Jaime’s impossible tongue sending jolts throughout her body. He made eye contact with her briefly, sending her a mischievous grin before he hummed _right onto her_ and the vibrations seemed to move up, into her stomach, and she hardly felt her head hitting the stone floor because she felt _so much everywhere_. Jaime looked up to make sure Brienne was unharmed, and was summarily rewarded with her tangling her hands in his hair, urging him back downwards. He sucked lightly on her clit, and suddenly it was all over, her body spasming, his mouth flooded with the taste of Brienne. Boneless, she slumped to the ground, her legs going slack around him. Jaime cleaned her single-handedly, as it seemed unlikely that the lady herself would be moving any time soon, a point he took great pride in, as she was still dazed by the time he dried them off.

            They lay in bed once again, Brienne half-draped over Jaime with his arms securing her in place. He whispered unintelligible words against the side of her throat, tracing letters she couldn’t quite decipher on her back. As she was about to slip into a light slumber once more, Jaime’s voice rumbled against her, vibrating in her throat, as he called, “Brienne.” She lifted her head up, quipping, “So, you’ve learned my name at last? About time, I should say.” Any bite her remark may have had was dispelled as she looked down tenderly at him, gently smoothing an errant lock of damp hair from his forehead. He looked at her earnestly, in that way of his that made her knees weak every single time ( _It’s yours, it’s always been yours_ ), and as if it was simultaneously a revelation and the simplest truth in the world, breathed out, “I love you.” Suddenly, she could identify the letters he had been tracing onto her back (I-l-o-v-e-y-o-u). Tears blurred her vision as she contemplated the man before her. Brienne had grown up knowing that she was not a beautiful girl, had been taught to be dutiful because that was the only value a man would ever find in her. Except for Jaime, who _needed_ love - it was as vital to him as the air he breathed, and she knew he would never joke about it, never say it unless he absolutely meant it.

            Her blue orbs became glossy with tears, making them seem impossibly larger as she gripped his shoulders with trembling fingers. Nevertheless, her voice was unwavering as she responded, “I love you, too, Jaime.” She gave him a shy smile as Jaime’s face was overtaken by a grin so wide as to look painful. His eyes shone with an effervescent happiness as he rolled on top of her, pressing kisses indiscriminately on her face and down the pale, long column of her throat. He took a brief pause to inform her, in his most manner-of-fact tone, “One day, when this wretched war is done with, and we’re not naked in bed, I’m going to ask you to marry me. And we’re going to go to Tarth, or the Rock, or anywhere else in the Seven Kingdoms you want to go, and I’m going to drench you in jewels, rubies – no, sapphires for your eyes, so that every last worthless cunt who ever said a word about you will see _exactly_ how precious you are to me. With that, he leaned back down to capture her lips, and she wrapped her legs around Jaime’s hips, chanting “Yes, yes, yes, yes,” which Jaime took to be as good an answer as any. Needless, to say, they both missed lunch.

            Though both Brienne and Jaime possessed rather impressive stamina, they eventually succumbed to the need to eat. At dinner, they seated themselves opposite Tyrion and Pod in their own little corner of the Great Hall. As they ate, Jaime recalled sitting here once, nearly in the same spot, with his brother, his twin, and their children. He grimaced at the memory, which now felt so cold in comparison with the reality of his present, despite persistent winter chill. Brienne’s hand ghosting down his back anchored Jaime back in the present. She shot him a questioning look, to which he responded with a subtle shake of the head and a slight smile, kissing her on the cheek. Two tables away, Giantpain began sobbing convulsively. Tyrion shot out some rude remark, Brienne flushed, Pod choked, as always. Jaime took in the sight of the three people dearest to him in the world with a grin; Tyrion had lately informed him that it would be his last night with his brother for some time, and Jaime intended to enjoy it thoroughly.

            After they finished eating, Brienne rose, placing a hand on Jaime’s shoulder as she excused herself to attend Lady Sansa. (Jaime was convinced that their evening “meeting” was solely an excuse to gossip, but he certainly wasn’t going to be the fool to cross either of those most formidable women.) As she was about to depart, Brienne leaned down to assure him that she’d return to her chambers soon, and that no _extreme_ measures would be necessary. Guiding her chin with his fingers, he placed a gentle kiss on her lips, whispering back, “As you will, my love.” A shy smile spread across Brienne’s face as she recalled their previous conversation, remaining even as she left the room.

            Tyrion gestured with his goblet to the space that Brienne had recently vacated, a slightly intoxicated grin plastered across his features. “What was _that_ about?” he teased, referring to the fact that while anyone with two eyes (or two ears, as it happened), knew that Jaime and Brienne were together, they weren’t generally as demonstrative as they were this evening. Jaime responded with a completely besotted grin, unable to keep this secret from his brother, revealing, “Brienne _loves_ me.” Tyrion leaned back in his seat, clearly unimpressed, complaining, “Is that it? I could have told you that the first time I ever saw her look at you. The girl really needs to work on her cyvasse face, it’s written all over her every time she so much as thinks in your general direction, dear brother.” Podrick pointed at Jaime as if to give him a protective speech on Brienne’s behalf, but was interrupted by no fewer than four maids accosting him, requesting his immediate presence. Tyrion clapped the lad on the back as he left with his entourage, leaving the Lannister brothers alone.

            Jaime jerked his head towards the exit, and Tyrion nodded, bringing a flagon of wine with him. The two were uncharacteristically silent on the way to Jaime and Brienne’s shared chambers, the knowledge of Tyrion’s impending departure weighing heavily on both their shoulders. Jaime opened to door to his champers, and jerked abruptly as he felt something whiz barely above his head, clipping a few errant strands of hair. Registering the missile as an arrow, Jaime placed a finger over his mouth and indicated to Tyrion to keep quiet, mind racing. The arrow had been shot too high to hit him, or really anyone but some of the Wildlings… _and Brienne_ , but wasn’t so far off as to be a warning shot for him. It was meant for Brienne, it must have been. Pulling his short dagger out, silent as a lion stalking its prey, Jaime estimated the position of the attacker and threw the knife.   
Based on the slight yelp from within, the knife had hit its target. Jaime burst into the room, Tyrion hot on his heels. Recognizing the familiar face, the brothers shouted in unison, “Bronn?!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this chapter - I feel like we were all deprived of seeing how things in Winterfell progressed and witnessing the relationships between these complex characters, so I wanted to delve into it! I didn't receive that much feedback on the last chapter, so I hope it was okay :)


	7. All Nightmare Long

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Protective!Jaime jumped out and came for Bronn. Trouble in paradise begins to arise for our favorite knights.

Jaime’s vision turned red as he looked upon Bronn, who was clutching the deep wound the dagger had left in his right arm. He stalked in, Tyrion at his heels, and pinned his former friend up against the wall with his golden hand at the man’s throat, his real hand gripping the bleeding wound. He took a perverse pleasure in watching Bronn’s eyes bug out of their sockets, a combination of the lack of oxygen and pain. Holding Bronn’s neck fast, Jaime slammed Bronn’s head into the stone wall as he interrogated, “Who sent you? Was it Cersei? Of _bloody_ course it was Cersei! Why in the Seven Hells is she targeting _Brienne_?” As he spoke, Jaime’s grip on Bronn’s arm tightened, blood running in rivulets down their arms and onto the floor. Bronn began turning a bit green, sweat gathering on his brow as he answered, “She…she knows about you two. There’s a spy…inside the castle.”

With that, the man’s eyes rolled back into his head as he slumped into a faint.  A sneer of disgust overtook Jaime’s features as he let Bronn’s body drop to the floor, stalking away from the wall and hitting the sturdy dresser in the corner of the room with his golden hand. Tyrion gingerly walked over to the sellsword, inspecting his wound, which was now bleeding sluggishly. Tearing a large piece of cloth from his tunic, the dwarf began wrapping the wound in an attempt to staunch the blood flow. Whirling around, Jaime growled, “What are you _doing_?” For his part, he was perfectly content to let Bronn bleed to death right there on the cold floor. Huffing from the exertion of maneuvering Bronn’s inert limbs, Tyrion groused, “Bronn has proven useful over the years, perhaps he will again. You know as well as I that he has no true loyalty to Cersei, or anyone besides himself. We can _use_ him, think about it. I know that you’re upset-” Enraged, Jaime interrupted his younger brother while tearing at his hair, shouting, “What, should I invite him to tea right after he tried to kill the woman I love?” Tyrion shook his head, backpedaling, “Of course not, but we can’t hope to keep her safe unless we know the full extent of Cersei’s plans. There’s also the small matter of the _spy_ , possibly _spies_ that Cersei has in Winterfell. Any scrap of information Bronn can give us is necessary, and you know this.”

Jaime sank into the nearest armchair with a _thud_ , cradling his head in his hands for a moment before dragging his hands over his face and bringing them down to rest on his thighs. Gesturing to the still-slack body of the would-be assassin, he questioned, “Well, what are we to do with him? We can’t very well stick him in the dungeons without cause, and I _refuse_ to allow him to walk free if there’s so much as a chance of a chance that he will harm one hair on Brienne’s head. _One hair, do you hear me?_ ” Tyrion nodded enthusiastically, reassuring his brother, “We just need to give him a good incentive to support us over Cersei, make sure he’s more afraid of us than he is of her.” “That,” Jaime responded ominously, “should not be a problem.” He glared at Bronn, who was still laying prone on the floor, and sat up straighter, a menacing glower distorting his features.

The brothers sat in silence for a few awkward moments until Bronn began waking, groaning softly and gripping his head, which was throbbing where Jaime had slammed him against the wall. “ _Seven Hells_ ,” he whined, “her cunt must drip honey for you to hit that hard.” Jaime’s fingers twitched in the direction of Widow’s Wail, and Tyrion sent a subtle warning look in his direction while Bronn continued to rub his head, apparently unaware of the mortal danger he was in. Tyrion advised, “If you’d like to keep that head of yours attached to your shoulders, you’ll keep to your manners when you speak about Ser Brienne where my brother can hear you. You’ll also stop trying to kill _her_.” Jaime growled in agreement from where he sat, every muscle clenched from the effort it took not to leap up and kill the man.

Sensing that a deal was about to be made, Bronn rebutted, “Your sister promised me Riverrun if I killed her, and I don’t see any castles materializing from the likes of you.” Rolling his eyes at Bronn’s shortsightedness, Tyrion responded, “When we win the war, you’ll become Lord of the Dreadfort, and you can have your pick of any of the remaining Frey girls.” The sellsword scoffed incredulously, protesting, “You once offered me twice what anyone betraying you gave me to stay loyal to you. How is the Dreadfort and a girl from a fallen, insignificant house twice Riverrun?” Jaime let out a huff of a laugh, speaking in a strangely quiet voice which was somehow more terrifying than a shout, proving himself Tywin’s son: “Oh, you won’t be getting Highgarden – unless you truly think that Cersei has the manpower to take down _two_ dragons, and then the rest of the Northern houses, because it will be a cold day in all Seven Hells if you manage to get within a mile of Riverrun without the Starks riding down to _destroy_ you. Tyrion might believe that you’re still useful and has some lingering affection for you, but make no mistake, I’m perfectly happy to run my sword through you where you sit.” 

Bronn had never viewed Jaime as the most threatening of the Lannisters, despite his formidable reputation. The one-handed knight had always had an amiable disposition, even as Bronn had disrespected him, japed with him, knocked him into the dirt. Watching him now, Bronn had to re-evaluate that estimation, and nodded his assent with lips drawn both from displeasure and pain. Jaime rose from his seat, the stony expression on his face shifting nary an inch as Tyrion declared jovially, “Good, now that that’s all settled, let’s get Bronn to my room. I’ll have him “arrive” at the castle tomorrow and tell everyone that he was injured riding North to join Daenerys’ army, and will need to stay here to recuperate.” Jaime silently stooped to the ground and lifted Bronn’s uninjured arm around his shoulder, gripping the other man’s torso with his right arm. Together, the two Lannisters managed to get Bronn to Tyrion’s chamber unseen, keeping to the shadows as Jaime supported him and Tyrion acted the look-out. As Jaime deposited Bronn into a chair while Tyrion looked for wine to clean the wound out with, he leaned in close to Bronn’s ear and hissed, “I’ll be watching you. If you so much as _look_ at Brienne in a way I find distasteful, I shall take great pleasure in slitting your throat myself.” “Oh, Jaime,” Bronn responded woozily, “you sure know how to make a man feel special.” As Tyrion returned, Jaime patted Bronn roughly on the back with a shark-like grin before turning to his younger brother and giving him a more genuine hug. Gripping his brother’s shoulder, Jaime whispered, “Safe travels, dear brother. But if anything happens to Brienne because of this, I’m holding you personally responsible.”

Tyrion responded to him with a sharp nod, and Jaime swept out of the room quickly, sprinting through the shadowed corridors to his and Brienne’s chambers as quickly as possible. He arrived, thanking the Old Gods and the New that he had somehow managed to beat Brienne back; the entire ordeal had felt as though it had taken hours, but in reality, it had been just over half of one. Springing into action, Jaime grabbed the nearest available piece of cloth, which just so happened to be one of his tunics, and used it to mop up the liberal amount of blood on the floor. He shoved it into the back of the closet where he kept the clothing he had already worn. At some point or other he’d have to learn to do the washing, but as that day was not evidently forthcoming, Jaime decided to compartmentalize. He slammed the closet door shut behind him and slumped to the ground before it, the gravity of the situation overtaking him. It had been pure chance that he had walked into the room and not Brienne, and Cersei already had at least one spy that she corresponded with wandering about the castle. There were hundreds of smallfolk still milling about in Winterfell, and identifying anyone definitively as a spy without creating unrest and upsetting the delicate balance holding the keep together was nigh on impossible. As long as his sister lived, he knew, she would never give up, never relent until Brienne was dead. Poison or arrows, a stab wound or a “misadventure,” it didn’t matter; Cersei would send as many assassins as it took until she succeeded, and they might not be so fortunate next time. A shudder ripped through Jaime’s entire body at the idea of life without Brienne, without her wide, toothy grins when he caught her off guard, her stubborn honor, her will as unbending as iron, her forgiveness deeper than the oceans of her eyes. He couldn’t, _wouldn’t_ live without her. And he certainly would not be giving Cersei the satisfaction of having them both dead. ( _No-one walks away from me, no-one walks away from me, no-one walks away from me.)_ Jaime clutched his knees to his chest, rocking back and forth as he contended with the burst of white-hot panic that threatened to explode from his chest, seep out his bones, and consume him.

He couldn’t tell you how long he’d been sitting like that when Brienne finally returned, looking around the room inquiringly for him, but half-expecting that he would be having one last alcohol-soaked night of merriment with Tyrion. Instead, she saw him curled up before their closet, looking as though he would be sick. Her fingers, which had been unlacing her cloak, stilled as she flew to him, the heavy fabric puddling on the floor instead of neatly hung up. Brienne sat herself on the floor in an undignified scrawl as she tried to fit both her limbs and Jaime’s in the cramped space between the closet and the bed, scooting as close to him as she possibly could. She cupped his jaw in her hand, and he leaned into the familiar touch, the rough callouses a balm to his ragged soul. She stroked his bearded cheek with her thumb, murmuring softly, “What is it, Jaime, what’s happened?”

In lieu of an answer, he closed the distance between them capturing her lips in a searing, possessive kiss. Instinctively, Brienne opened her mouth to his probing tongue, wanting to press him further, but suffering from a certain amount of difficulty summoning coherent thought. She felt him pull her up, his hand unlacing her tunic almost deftly, infinitely better-practiced than he once was. He pushed her backwards, pressing her up against what she realized was the door as she felt the rough wood through the fabric of her tunic. Before she could process what exactly was occurring, Jaime slid his hand into her breeches, past her smallclothes, and slipped a finger into her. She bucked up into him, desperate for more friction as she grasped at his shoulders, her gasp swallowed by his insistent mouth. Before long, she was rocking frantically back and forth on three of his fingers, clutching at the door in a bid to remain upright. With a shudder that ripped through her whole body, Brienne’s eyes rolled back in her head and she came, her body slumping onto Jaime.

He lay her down on the bed, wiping his fingers on the sheets, which would have gotten him scolded if Brienne could have summoned the energy to move her head to see him. As it was, she was already half-asleep as he divested her gently of her clothes, shimmying her breeches the rest of the way down her legs. She heard his clothes hitting the floor softly, and then Jaime was covering them both with the thick furs, his own bare body curving around hers. However, even as she was pulled under by the wave of sleep that swept over her like a tidal wave, Brienne couldn’t dispel the image of Jaime’s ashen face from her mind.

She woke scarcely a few hours later, very likely owning to the fact that she couldn’t breathe. Jaime’s arms were wrapped around her like bands of steel, and she could feel the quick, labored breathing that denoted a nightmare in his chest. She placed a hand over his stump, attempting to loosen his vice grip as she stroked it reassuringly. He came to within a few moments, shooting up straight as he breathed heavily and shouted her name, eyes blind and darting wildly around the room with panic.

Brienne wrapped her arms around him, whispering, _It’s alright, I’m here, you’re safe, I love you_ , until his muscles unclenched. His head snapped to her and he looked over her frantically, as if examining her for injuries. Still half-asleep, Brienne ran a comforting hand down his arm and questioned, “Jaime, what is it? You haven’t had a nightmare this bad in weeks.” Her yawn was cut short when, in lieu of a response, Jaime wrapped his arms tightly around her once more, and tugged down to lay half on top of him. She nestled her head in his neck, allowing him the physical comfort he so clearly craved. Though they were both completely naked, pressed up against one another from head to toe, there was nothing sexual about their intimacy in that moment, nor would Brienne allow him to distract her thusly again. For several minutes, Jaime made no reply but to breathe with forced regularity, clutching Brienne to him and reassuring himself that she was alive, not dead with an arrow through her forehead and her blood pooling on the floor as Cersei laughed above her. Brienne simply held him, murmuring a steady stream of comforting words into his skin, and waited patiently for him to calm. Eventually, the knot in his chest loosened enough that he could speak, but instead of an explanation, he simply rasped out, “I love you, Brienne. I _love_ you.”  

Completely baffled, Brienne began attempting to pull herself up so she could look down at him. As soon as she separated her skin from his, however, an expression of sheer panic gripped his features, evident even in the dim moonlight. She lowered herself back down, fitting herself to him, and she felt some of the tension drain out of his jaw as it rested atop her head. She reassured him as best she could, “I love you too, Jaime, you know that.” When his grip on her only tightened, she prodded further, “What’s gotten you so shaken?” Jaime wanted to tell her – about Bronn, and Cersei, and the whole ridiculous mess that was going to get her _killed_. If he told her the truth, he knew that she was first going to be offended at the notion that she needed protection, and then take unnecessary risks to prove herself capable of handling them, even if she couldn’t. He shook his head into her hair, hating himself for the lie as he denied with forced lightness, “It’s nothing, my love, just another nightmare like the rest. Can’t imagine why I’ve been so emotional today, I’m probably just absorbing all those emotions the Northerners are suppressing.”

Dissatisfied with his response but at a loss as to how to proceed, Brienne stilled against him, her mouth set in a grim line. In all the time they had shared a bed, Jaime had never been unwilling to share the thoughts weighing on him. Her mind whirling, she fell into an uneasy and restless sleep, while Jaime lay awake beneath her until the dim sunlight began creeping into their room once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, I just want to first thank you for all your amazing reviews on the last chapter! They honestly made my day, each and every single one of them. Also, I want to apologize for the fact that this chapter is short and later than usual. I have a few excuses:   
> 1) I just started a full time summer job two weeks ago   
> 2) I picked up a parasite on vacation and it's been making me pretty miserable   
> 3) My ex proposed to his girlfriend with a ring that looks weirdly like the one I've been wearing every day for years and the dISrEspeCt 
> 
> But, at any rate, I've kind of made up my mind on how closely I'm going to stick to canon (fuck D&D), as well as where this is going, so bear with me and please tell me what you thought! (I wrote most of this while sitting in bed super ill, so I actually don't know how it is lmao)


	8. In Which the Plot, as Well as the Porridge, Thickens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Protective!Jaime on a rampage through the castle, while poor Brienne looks on. Badass!Sansa stars.

Brienne awoke in the dull grey light of the Northern sun, with Jaime’s shoulder pillowing her head and his right arm wrapped around her. Though his breathing was steady, the tenseness of his muscles belied the fact that he was awake; she doubted that he’d gotten a bit of sleep all night. Her heart ached to comfort him, to wipe away his distress with a pain that was almost physical, but she could not even make the attempt if he would not confide in her. She hated the sense of helplessness that descended upon her, wishing desperately that she could dispel the tension coursing through him. She placed a gentle kiss on his shoulder before pushing herself upright. She ignored Jaime’s petulant whine as he attempted to maintain his vice grip on her waist, launching herself off the bed to get dressed.

By the time she turned around, Jaime had thrown his arm over his closed eyes, and if Brienne wasn’t certain that he hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep last night, she would have assumed that he was being dramatic. Nevertheless, if he refused to allow her to share in the burden of whatever ailed him, at least she could make sure that he got whacked around the training yard until he came to his senses. Collecting his clothes from the chair upon which he had discarded them the previous night, she placed them on the bed, beside his prone form. In the most commanding tone she could summon when confronted by a sleepy, rumpled Jaime Lannister, she ordered, “Get out of bed, Jaime, I’ve training to do.” He whined incoherently about the unfairness of it all, flinging his arm off his face and spreading eagle over the bed. Her heart hardened at the sight of the deep bags beneath his eyes and Brienne resisted the urge to climb back into bed, a desire to which she normally surrendered.

Peeking at the mulish look on her face, Jaime groaned, recognized that he was fighting a losing battle, and hauled himself out of bed. He dressed efficiently (for him, at least), and they began walking to the Great Hall to break their fast together. Brienne noted that Jaime was acting noticeably strange, and she was positive that sleep deprivation was not the culprit. He peered suspiciously at each and every person who was unfortunate enough to cross their path, shifting behind her, beside her, in front of her, as though he did not know what to do with his body. Jaime’s hand never left the pommel of Widow’s Wail, his fingers flexing over the ornate metalwork with agitation. Any other day, she would have maneuvered around to the other side of him to take his hand and thread their fingers together, reveling in the way he looked at her like she was a miracle every time she displayed affection for him in public. As it was, he was doing his level best to keep her as close to the wall as possible on her right, and his own body forming a shield on her left. Every time she hastened or slowed experimentally, he would do the same immediately, looking around the mostly-deserted corridors as though something was going to materialize from the shadows.

Brienne was at her wit’s end by the time they arrived at breakfast, hoping desperately that the presence of Podrick and the remaining Northerners would calm him. She had hoped in vain, apparently, because Jaime became impossibly _more_ agitated. He was sitting so close to her that his elbow was nearly in her porridge, and he seemed to be shifting closer by the second. At this rate, he’d be in her lap by the end of the meal. Their proximity did nothing to encourage conversation, however, as he kept swiveling his head around while Pod looked on in confusion. Brienne simply rolled her eyes, agitated beyond words.

She amended her previous plan, deciding that if Jaime wandered into her line of vision while she was on the training grounds, she would undoubtedly whack him black-and-blue. Before they put a wooden sword in her hand. She stood up from the table, motioning towards Pod to indicate that he should follow her. As he passed Jaime, the older man grabbed Pod’s sleeve, pulling him down harshly to whisper something in his ear. Pod gave a sharp nod in response, tilting his head at her expectantly as she glanced between the two of them. With a huff of irritation, she marched towards the training yard, Pod trailing dutifully behind her. As soon as they were out of Jaime’s line of sight, Brienne questioned her squire rather aggressively, “What did he want with you?” Guilelessly, Pod responded, “Just something about staying close you, milady. Could barely hear him over the din.” Brienne gritted her teeth, grabbing a tourney sword from a nearby rack while Podrick looked on, concerned. He wondered if they’d had a lover’s quarrel, though the sounds reportedly coming from their chambers last night indicated otherwise. As Brienne was about to start hacking away at the hapless dummy before her (a stuffed one, not Podrick), Ser Bronn rode through the gates, gripping his bandaged arm with his other hand. She rushed to him, and began to help him dismount.

Jaime kept his eyes trained on Brienne’s back leaving the Great Hall until she turned the corner and strain though he did, he could no longer see her. Though it made him anxious in the extreme, Jaime knew that he would have to trust Podrick to protect Brienne until he could return to her. As he lay awake all night, Jaime had contemplated everything he could do to keep Brienne safe until Cersei was defeated, short of locking her in their chambers and barring the door. A tempting prospect, but based on her evident frustration with him this morning, not a very viable one. The only thing he could decide upon for certain was that he needed to speak with Sansa Stark. The girl, though young, knew Winterfell and its inhabitants more intimately than anyone else in the keep, and had learned from the most cunning minds in Westeros besides.

Jaime leapt up from his seat, hastening towards Sansa’s solar, where he knew she normally spent her mornings buried in administrative duties. There were two guards posted outside her door, both of whom recognized him on sight and cracked open the door to announce him. Not willing to waste precious seconds on courtesy, Jaime pushed past the guards, ignoring their indignant grunts. Despite the commotion, Sansa placidly glanced up at him, a slight tilt of her head the only indication that anything odd had occurred. It was difficult to reconcile her with the giddy, histrionic girl she had once been, but he supposed that the past decade had forced all the Stark children to grow up too quickly, the shadowy ghosts of their murdered parents looming large over them all.

Noting the panicked, wild look in his eyes, Sansa simply greeted, “Ser Jaime,” before allowing him to speak. He began to explain, “There’s a sell-sword, Bronn, who Tyrion hired years ago to do his…. _dirty_ work, and he’s been doing it ever since. Cersei,” he spit her name out like a curse, “sent him North to kill Brienne.” Sansa’s veneer of serenity shattered immediately as she shot to her feet, questioning, “Where is she? Is she alright?” Jaime motioned at her to lower her voice, answering, “Yes, I caught him in our chambers last night. Fortunately, he shot at me and not _her_ , but he’s not our biggest problem right now. Cersei has a spy inside Winterfell, possibly more than one.” Sansa’s face blanched significantly, no small feat considering her already pale complexion. Despite the undeniable extent to which the Stark girl had grown, come into her own as a leader, she was still terrified of his twin. Smart girl.

 Sansa braced herself on the sturdy desk, pressing, “Have you told her?” Jaime shook his head, grey as the hair that had recently begun to overtake his famed golden head. She used her free hand to rub at her temples, wishing not for the first time, for Jon’s sturdy, reassuring presence to ease how vulnerable she felt, especially with _Cersei’s_ spy running loose in the castle. _In her home._ A moment dwelling on the notion incensed Sansa beyond reason, a red flush flooding her cheeks with indignation. She hissed furiously, “We _will_ find this spy, and we will tear them out, root and stem. I don’t care if _she’s_ planted _a hundred_ gods-damned spies in my castle, I will _find_ them.”

Jaime was exceedingly glad that he and Sansa were aligned in this war; the spark that Catelyn passed on to her daughter had been fanned into a raging flame, tempered by her the years she had spent silent in the shadows. Taking a few steadying breaths, she pinched the bridge of her nose, looking up after releasing it, determination clear in her Tully-blue eyes. “Leave the spies to me,” she said decisively, “I have a few trusted men posted throughout the castle – they’ll keep a lookout for anyone or anything suspicious. Meanwhile, you need to keep Brienne safe. And that means letting her know that there is someone, perhaps multiple people within these walls that want her dead.” Jaime sputtered his dissent, but Sansa held up a willowy hand to stop him, asserting, “Keeping her ignorant is not protection, especially not for a woman like Ser Brienne. I won’t order you to tell her, I leave the decision to you, but as her friend, I advise you to _tell her_ what she faces.”

With that, it was clear that Jaime was dismissed; he inclined his head in a sharp nod to Sansa, to which she responded, “Guard her well, Ser Jaime.” In return, he gave her the only truth he could muster: “With my life, Lady Sansa.”

At the training grounds, Brienne sparred with Podrick as Ser Bronn looked on in fascination. Though injured, he had refused immediate treatment, opting instead to watch the lady knight thrash and intermittently instruct her squire. Jaime’s odd behavior as of late had put Brienne ill at ease, and it was evident in her fighting – though she could still defeat Pod handily, her usually precise footwork was askew, unsure as she slashed and parried. Through several rounds of their fighting, Bronn observed, his keen glance seeming to make Brienne’s skin crawl even beneath her thick winter clothing.

The training grounds were largely silent, as most of the fighting men had gone with Jon and Queen Daenerys, the rest rotating guard duty, and the only sounds were the thwacks of the wooden swords hitting each other in turn. The comfortable rhythm was broken by Jaime running onto the field, snow crunching beneath his heavy, booted steps. Both she and Pod paused to watch as he sprinted up to her, his hand grasping out for hers as he reached them, his mouth slightly ajar as if he was looking for words he could not find. Brienne looked into his emerald-green eyes, relieved to find some semblance of lucidity within their depths. That was, until he looked over her shoulder and spied Bronn lounging on the bench overlooking them. Instantly, his face hardened into a mask of fury, his grip on her hand tightening until she felt his bones through the thickness of her gloves. In a tight voice, he gritted out, “I would speak with you, my lady, in private.” Hoping that he would allow her to share in whatever was burdening him so, she nodded, and before she could think, he was nearly pulling her through the snow and then towards their chambers. _Quite an accomplishment, to drag me anywhere_ , Brienne mused to herself. She was sure the scullery maids they encountered tittering among themselves on the way would have quite a tale to tell once they returned to the kitchens.

Jaime hastened into the room, but not before glancing suspiciously around the corridor, pushing himself in before her, as if to act as a human shield. Crossing her arms in frustration, she stood looking at him as he locked and barred the door for good measure. In truth, Jaime had only been acting a madman for half a day, and in that time Brienne had realized how much she needed him – his quips, his incessant flirting, his smile. She missed his presence more in the past twelve hours than she had in the years they had been separated, astounded by how easy it had been to come to rely upon him.

He turned to her, and began grimly, “Bronn was here, in our room, last night…here to _kill you_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is also abysmally short, but stomach bug actually ended up being a parasite, and I still have to teach through it, so it's been a time. 
> 
> Each and every single kudos and review brightens my day more than you could ever know - let me know if you like how this is going so far!
> 
> Fun fact: The last time I wrote 8 chapters in a story, it took me two years to do so! :O


	9. Bran Stark, Security Camera Extraordinaire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa saves Brienne from some soup. Jaime attempts to get back on his bullshit. Brienne is NOT having it.

 

Brienne staggered, her legs no longer supporting her weight as she fell onto the conveniently placed bed. Jaime fidgeted, unsure whether to give her space or give in to his urge to wrap her in his arms and hold her until the Old Gods or the New destroyed the world at the end of time. He mediated his desires by gingerly taking a seat next to her, watching her usually flushed skin pale.

Jaime’s completely strange behavior made a great deal of sense, now. A surge of anger rose in her at the fact that he had hidden her near-assassination from her for half a day, but she pushed it down to deal with later, as there were more pressing matters at hand. Brienne’s brow furrowed in confusion as she asked, “Why would Bronn want to _kill me_?” Jaime rubbed a hand down his face, explaining, “Cersei hired him to kill you. Fortunately, he shot at my head instead of yours.” Practically leaping into his lap, Brienne ran her fingers through his hair frantically, practically shouting, “Are you hurt?” even as she checked him for injuries herself. Placing his hand and his stump on her waist to steady her, Jaime reassured, “I’m fine, wench. You, however, are distressingly unconcerned about the fact that Cersei wants you dead.”

Brienne shrugged, moving to shift herself from straddling him to back next to him. In protest, Jaime pulled her closer to his chest, and she sighed in resignation and explained, “Yes, yes, Cersei wants to kill me, she’s sent an assassin, she won’t stand for having what she considers her to be taken, she will stop at nothing, et cetera. Obviously, Bronn’s not going to murder me, as I doubt you’d have left him alive otherwise, and I can’t think of anyone else in the Seven Kingdoms who could get the better of either one of us.” She brushed his shaggy hair from his brow with her fingers, running her thumbs down his whiskered cheeks as she held his face in her hands. Grasping her right hand with his left, Jaime could have gotten on his knees and begged her to understand. He held her hand to his chest, so that she could feel his heart hammering against her fingertips, as though it was attempting to escape Jaime’s body in a bid to be nearer to her. Jaime could not fault it the impulse as he entreated, “Brienne, _please_ , you are my heart and I _cannot_ lose you, I beg you, _be careful_.”

Brienne saw his emerald eyes, normally so full of mirth, glistening with tears from the force of his ardency. She shushed him gently, wiping the single tear that slipped out of his eye, allowing him to maintain his vice grip on her right hand. “No-one’s losing anyone, I swear it, Jaime. And if it would make you feel better, I shall keep my sword on me at all times when I’m not in this room. Does that satisfy?” In lieu of a response, Jaime rested his head on her collarbone, the shortened hairs atop his head tickling the hollow of her throat. Brienne refused to allow Cersei Lannister into the bed _she_ shared with Jaime, pressing him back into the mattress so quickly that the air left his lungs as he grunted on impact. Immediately, she covered his mouth with hers, aiming to drive all thoughts of his twin far, _far_ away.

Meanwhile, Sansa steeled herself to approach Bran in the Godswood, gathering some measure of calm from the soft, heavy snow falling onto her cloak. She could scarcely believe that her wild, indomitable little brother had become the placid, otherworldly creature before her. He turned his head towards Sansa the moment it was plausible that he could have heard her footsteps crushing the snow beneath her feet; in truth, he had been expecting her for some time. “Hello, Sansa,” Bran greeted in the same unruffled tone as he had plotted the demise of the Night King. “Bran,” she responded, stifling a gasp as the frigid winter air slapped her face, continuing, “I’ve had word that Cersei has managed to somehow sneak a spy into Winterfell, perhaps multiple. Could you…I don’t know, figure out who it is?” Still unsure as to the extent of Bran’s abilities, Sansa worded her request as bluntly as possible. Bran, despite his general Three-Eyed-Raven-ness, found himself rather offended that Cersei had managed to get a spy into his home right under his nose. It was rather insulting; she wasn’t even that clever.

Bran’s eyes rolled back in his head as he searched the memories hidden in the stone walls of Winterfell, twisting and turning and burnt stone, the smell of cooking, a wooden stove, Arya and Gendry? ( _no, thank you_ ), knights clanging about, a woman, looking directly at him-brown eyes peering around suspiciously, pouring something into a bowl, shards of a glass decanter discarded in a pile of rubble.

Bran’s entire form started as though he had been electrocuted as his eyes focused on Sansa once again. Panting for breath, he informed her as calmly as his reputation demanded, “There’s a woman, brown eyes, long light brown hair, she’s the Lady Brienne’s lady’s maid.” Sansa looked taken aback, responding, “Yes, Anaise, she’s from Tarth, Lord Selwyn sent her some weeks ago with a retinue of soldiers, all of whom were _killed_ by Lannister soldiers. She was the only one who escaped, and just barely. Why would she be loyal to Queen Cersei?” Bran shook his head. Honestly, people who could not see into the past, present, and future simultaneously were just so _trying_ sometimes, needed everything explained to them. He shook his head sagely, elucidating, “How do you think one maid managed to escape soldiers that killed _six_ of Tarth’s soldiers? Her life was spared in exchange for the Lady Brienne’s, on the Queen’s orders. She’s going to poison Brienne, I couldn’t quite tell whether it was the present or the future I was seeing, but I’m certain that’s going to be her next attempt.”

Sansa’s face fell - she knew that Brienne trusted the people of her island with a steadfastness that bordered on naivety, and that the knowledge of this traitor would shake her stalwart Lady knight. Nevertheless, there was absolutely no time to lose; Brienne needed to be informed of the mortal peril she was in, whether Ser Jaime liked it or not. The murderer could already be in their chambers, for all she knew. Sansa shot a quick look at Bran, who responded with a firm nod as though he could read her mind (she was only _fairly_ sure he wasn’t), and sprinted as quickly as she could towards the castle. 

Meanwhile, Brienne and Jaime were putting their hard-won alone time to good use, as Jaime nipped and sucked at the valley between Brienne’s meager breasts. Her high-pitched keening could be heard echoing in the corridor, however, it apparently did not hinder whatever doomed individual had just boldly knocked on the door despite the noise. Jaime collapsed onto Brienne in frustration as she gently pushed him off to re-lace her tunic. He flopped dramatically to the bed before springing up towards the door as if possessed, grabbing a dagger on the way. _We really ought to stop leaving weapons lying about,_ Brienne speculated idly as she watched his golden figure cross the room. Pressing his ear to the door, Jaime called out, “Who is it?”

From the other side, a familiar voice called out, “Anaise, Ser. I’ve brought you and Ser Brienne some afternoon repast.” With a demure giggle, she added, “I’ve noticed that the pair of you hardly ever make it to the noon meal – can’t let the two best knights in Winterfell starve, after all!” Brienne nodded to allow the girl inside, pleased as she was to have someone from her island with her, as far North as they were. The Evenstar had sent the girl to wait on his daughter with a retinue of soldiers for protection. They had been set upon by Lannister soldiers for bearing the sigil of Tarth, whose heir was engaging in blatant treason against the Crown by fighting under Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen. There was also Brienne’s unpardonable crime of being the woman Jaime had fallen in love with, and Cersei absolutely could not let that most heinous action go unpunished. The girl had survived the onslaught only by the skin on her teeth, and had arrived at the keep much the worse for wear, starting at even the slightest noises. Brienne, his guileless wench, trusted her without compunction, and though Jaime didn’t think it was prudent to trust _anyone_ , Brienne certainly would not heed any warnings regarding this slip of a girl from the Sapphire Isle, so he held his tongue. Nevertheless, he placed the dagger within reach before unbolting the door, and Brienne greeted the woman with a smile.

Anaise held a tray of steaming stew, which she placed atop the dresser behind him. Eying the dagger with confusion, she gestured towards the tray, explaining, “I’ve brought your favorites, lamb stew for Ser Brienne, and one with beef for you, Ser Jaime.” Jaime hummed his appreciation while Brienne verbalized it, both of them picking up their respective bowls of the still-steaming stew, allowing it to warm their faces.

As Brienne was about to take a bite, Sansa burst in through the open door, accompanied by no fewer than six guards. Instinctively, Jaime dropped the bowl in favor of the dagger behind him, while a more stoic Brienne started only enough that some of her stew sloshed over onto her hand. Eying the mess all over the floor and a panting, flushed Sansa with trepidation, Anaise excused herself, ostensibly to obtain towels and water with which to clean the floor. Sansa, however, motioned towards her soldiers to restrain the petite woman, all six of them holding onto her as though she was about to transform into the Mountain at any moment. Utterly bewildered, Brienne looked to her liege lady for an explanation, but Sansa’s stony gaze was entirely focused on Anaise, who struggled against her captors with more strength than her diminutive form would have suggested, but her efforts were ultimately fruitless. Nevertheless, Jaime kept the dagger pointed at her, should anything unexpected occur.

Brienne attempted to attract Sansa’s attention, calling out, “Lady Sansa, what-” She was cut off by Sansa herself, who answered sharply, in a voice like ice: “ _She_ is trying to murder you, the spy Cersei slipped into our walls. That stew’s very likely poisoned.” Brienne furrowed her brows, placing the bowl delicately behind her and questioning, “But she’s from _Tarth_ , not even the mainland, why would she want to kill me for Cersei?” Before Sansa could respond, Anaise begged, “Please my Lady, I would never do such a thing, there’s no proof of any such thing!”

Brienne, whose faith in her people was great, but still secondary to her trust in Lady Sansa, schooled her features to be as neutral as possible as she asked, “My Lady, I cannot believe you would arrest any innocent without evidence against their person. May I inquire as to what it is?” Sansa, face softening minutely as she responded to her friend, answered, “Bran’s visions condemn her as surely as if I’d caught her with the poison in her own hands. I shall send this,” as she nodded towards Brienne’s stew, “to Maester Tarly, and see what he can discern about the potential poison in it.”

Anaise’s face had been turning slowly redder as each word of the case against her was uttered, eventually looking as though she was attempting to impersonate a Lannister banner. Realizing she was caught, the traitor spat out, “Queen Cersei gave me more than you ever did, _Lady_ Brienne. _She_ remembers that she rules, doesn’t run away to chase her little dreams all across Westeros, pays me well too! You haven’t even been back to Tarth in years, did you even know that the Evenstar has taken ill? Of course you don’t, gallivanting up North with your new liege lady and the _Kingslayer_. You would condemn my lack of loyalty to Tarth? Well, where-” She was cut off by the guards beginning to drag her away, in response to a delicate flick of Sansa’s head.

Brienne expelled a breath of relief, leaning heavily against the dresser before remembering the presence of her liege lady and straightening up. Jaime, to her right, felt the blood rushing to his head, as the fact that Brienne had been a mere few moments from ingesting _poison_ settled in. Brienne just barely managed to catch him with her warrior’s reflexes when he fainted, as the combination of stress and sleep deprivation overcame his body. Brienne half-dragged, half-carried him to the bed, apologizing to Lady Sansa for not addressing her. A shocked laugh burst abruptly from Sansa’s lips, and she explained, “There is no need to apologize, take care of him, and most importantly, yourself. I shall see you tomorrow morning.” Brienne nodded, stroking her fingers through Jaime’s hair. Brienne piped up, “Thank you for saving my life, Lady Sansa. I shall always be in your debt.” Sansa paused with her hand curling around the door, responding, “There is nothing to thank me for, it is hardly a dent in the debt I owe you.” With a sharp nod, Sansa fled the warm domesticity of Brienne and Jaime’s chambers, hastening to her solar.

Brienne cradled Jaime’s head in her lap until his dark golden lashes fluttered open, revealing hazy emerald eyes. As he came to, he shot up, nearly knocking her in the jaw as he moved. Before she could say a word, Brienne found herself in a now-familiar desperate embrace, falling backwards onto the bed from the force of Jaime launching himself at her. She held his face in her hands, his stubble brushing against her palms. She informed him in no uncertain terms, “I am _fine_ , and I plan to stay that way for a good while yet. Who else would curb your ego?” He leaned down so that their lips brushed together, hand slipping beneath her tunic to feel her skin, warm and solid beneath his fingers, whispering, “I love you.” She grinned against his lips, about to reciprocate when they heard a loud pounding on the door. Podrick’s voice rang through the room as he shouted, “Milady Ser? Are you in there? Lady Sansa’s just told me you were almost-” He was unceremoniously cut off by Jaime, who threw the first thing he could grab (his golden hand sitting on the side table) at the door, and shouted, “Go _away_ , Pod, you can talk to her at dinner!”

Brienne chuckled at Jaime’s impatience, and she reassured her loyal squire, “I’m fine, thanks to Lady Sansa and Bran. I’ll see you shortly, Pod.” With a shuffle that Brienne assumed was a bow, Pod responded, “Yes, Milady Ser,” and went on his way.

Jaime leaned down to capture her lips in a searing kiss, pouring all his relief and anger and protectiveness and _love_ into it, and Brienne instinctively wrapped her thighs around his hips. When his hand drifted towards the laces of her breeches, however, she caught it in her hands, linking their fingers together. As if in response to his questioning look, she sat up, bringing him with her reluctantly. Tightening her grip on his hand, Brienne explained, “We need to _talk_ about this, Jaime. I understand you were frightened for me, but your behavior today…it scared me. I…If something happens to me, I need to know that you’ll be alright.” At his enraged expression, she backtracked swiftly, “Well, maybe not _alright_ per se, but I need to know that you’ll function, try to live your life. Rule the Rock, or stay here and serve the Starks, or whatever else you want to do. This life is perilous, and I knew that when I chose it. There are people who need you, and you can’t just…give up because I’m gone, Jaime.”

“Fuck everyone else,” he growled in response, brow darkening as she casually discussed her own death, “fuck everyone who isn’t us. I would kill them all for you, my love.” Brienne pinned him with a stern look, unwilling to allow his dramatics to reign unchecked, “You might be able to convince the masses that you don’t care about others, but remember, I _know_ you, Jaime. I know that you sacrificed your reputation to save half a million people you’d never met, so don’t tell me that we’re the only ones who matter to you!” Jaime regarded their entwined fingers curiously, murmuring, “It’s so irritating when you do that.” “Do what?” she queried in response. “ _See_ me,” Jaime answered simply, and Brienne rewarded him with a rare smile in response. He would make no promises regarding her other request though, and she would simply have to make her peace with the fact that she was surviving this war, no matter the cost, he decided.

 

A week later, Brienne woke up in the middle of the night to find their bed empty, Jaime’s side of the bed still warm, and a note bearing Jaime’s fumbling, nearly-illegible script sitting on the bedside table.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun duuuuuuuuuuuuun.  
> I’m sorry! I PROMISE I’LL EXPLAIN EVERYTHING IN THE NEXT CHAPTER!  
> At least my stomach parasite (Marcus Reginald Leopold III) is gone, so writing is going a tad bit faster. I aim to finish this fic by the end of the summer, as I doubt I'll have time to write it once law school starts!  
> ALSO you can get updates on this fic on Tumblr @ancientgreekfreak! HMU with a PM to let me know you're reading this!


	10. The Twincest Blues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why Jaime left for King's Landing, and how Brienne reacts.

Brienne was fairly certain that it was the Targaryens, not the Lannisters, that were predisposed to insanity; based on Jaime’s recent behavior, she was willing to reconsider that notion. Although the assassin had been caught and apprehended, Jaime was still stalking about Winterfell like a caged lion, snarling at anyone who looked at her askance. Given that she was a woman who stood at nearly six-and-a-half feet tall and carried a Valyrian steel sword, the number of those unfortunates was quite high. Oftentimes, she found him awake in the middle of the night, staring up at the ceiling with wide, unblinking eyes as he breathed heavily and clung to her desperately. After Sansa had informed them that one of Daenerys’ dragons had been killed by Euron Greyjoy, and that Cersei was in a stronger position than they had originally believed, Jaime’s nightmares had become worse, and he woke up screaming Brienne’s name more often than not in the rare event that he did sleep. His skin, normally so golden even in the frigid North, had adopted a gray pallor, his cheeks sinking into hollows as his mind ate away at him. Her heart broke every time she looked at him, and she longed to shield him from himself.

The only time Jaime maintained any of his previous _vigor_ was in the bedroom. Not to say that he limited their exploits to the bedroom, because he certainly did not. Any time he could get her alone - the armory, the stairwell, the library, a windowsill in a particularly infrequented hallway – he couldn’t seem to get enough of her. And he wouldn’t rest until she had come at least three times, leaving her so exhausted that she could hardly summon the energy to spar. She shuddered to think what her footwork must look like after a week of only light sparring. Still, she cherished each one of those moments, attempting to convey her love, her faith in him, as their bodies melted into one.

Regardless of her efforts, Jaime remained a sallow fortress unto himself, crumbling piece by piece but refusing to let go. He had spent so long being told, telling himself, that he _could not_ have weakness that he would rather collapse than admit to it.

Brienne sat in a ledge in the library, watching the heavy snows drift lazily down from the sky as she ruminated. The windowpane was frosted over, the cold seeping through her cloak and into her bones due to her proximity to it, but she could not bring herself to leave, to vacate the safe cocoon she had made for herself, where she could give in to her worries in solitude without having to answer for it. As she absentmindedly chewed at her nails, Brienne heard the heavy oak door creak open, flinching both at the sudden noise and the prospect of company. Fortunately, it was the subject of her concern that poked his shaggy head around the door, gifting her with his true smile, a rare gift nowadays. Jaime approached her, his heavy woolen cloak swirling around his ankles as he rushed to her windowsill.

He gathered her cold, pale hands in his, blowing onto her palms one by one to warm them. “I’ve been looking all over for you, my love,” he groused, dropping Brienne’s hand to cradle her cheek. She smiled gently down at him, trying to soothe his battered mind, if only for a moment, covering his hand with hers. “The snows are just so beautiful, they appear so light and delicate – I suppose I simply lost track of time.” Jaime drew her body against hers, glaring at the snow that he believed had possessed the audacity to steal her attention away from him. “Besides,” he added broodily, “what use is light and delicate in this world? Give me steadfast and strong any day.” Brienne barely held back a sigh as what little light had illuminated his eyes dimmed, squeezing his hand. She leapt deftly off the window ledge, holding onto his hand as she began pulling him towards the door. “Oh, no you don’t,” growled Jaime, whirling her around as she dragged him past a heavy oaken table. Utilizing her own momentum, he pressed her up against it, capturing her plush lips in a scorching kiss. She murmured a weak protest against Jaime’s lips, but it was smothered instantly when he slipped his hand into her breeches, stumped arm wrapped around her waist. His tongue delved into her mouth, fingers mimicking the assault in her slick folds as she buckled into him. She moaned into his mouth, and Jaime responded by sliding two more fingers into her wet heat. Brienne’s fingers tugged at his hair insistently, and he could feel his mind go blank, nothing else present but _BrienneBrienneBrienne_ , and he raked his teeth down her throat as she came with a cry as fierce as when she went into battle.

Spent, she fell back onto the table, which Jaime used as an opportunity to rid her of her cloak, which had been fastened so loosely that he could accomplish his task rather deftly, even with his one hand. To rid her of her breeches, however, he was forced to resort to the trick of using his teeth to drag down the waistband on her left side, a trail of gooseflesh following in their wake. With her legs adequately parted, Jaime’s tongue explored the space where his fingers had just been, his stubble scratching at her thighs as he brought her clit into his mouth. He sucked at her, gently at first, then more forcefully as Brienne wrapped her legs around his back and clawed at the table. “Good gods, wench,” he ground out, the sensation of her thigh muscles around him driving him nearly to insanity. With all the strength he possessed, Jaime used his arms, tightly wound around her thighs, to bring her impossibly closer to his mouth. With an almost-feral cry, she came yet again, her back arched and every muscle in her body taut before she collapsed.

Weakly, she motioned towards Jaime, her hand beckoning him closer as she panted out, “Need you. Now.” He grinned roguishly, teasing, “What’s the magic word, sweetling?” He launched himself at her before she could respond, covering her body with his, sheathing himself inside her in one smooth motion. He palmed her breast, meager though it was, thrusting into her frantically. They came with a cry so loud that Jaime feared it might wake the dead Starks, judgmental even in death, sleeping in the crypts beneath them. Suffice to say, Brienne was not able to walk out of the library for a good while after.

Jaime was quiet again at dinner, and Pod’s flagging attempts at humor were _not_ helping matters. Brienne felt the stirring urge to hit her head against the table and refuse to stop until Jaime agreed to _talk_ to her. Unfortunately, the pair of them needed at least one head between them, and Jaime’s was currently wandering only the Seven knew where. _Actually_ , Brienne mused, _I do know._ She realized that she did know what was bothering Jaime, a part of her had always known. As so many things did with Jaime, she knew it led it led, whether directly or indirectly, to Cersei. Brienne knew that she hadn’t wanted to admit it to herself, had wanted to believe that her love was enough to make him forget about Cersei entirely. But, after all, she wasn’t enough, could never be his golden twin, the perfect half of him.

Her fingers clenched around her fork, jaw setting in a manner that she knew would make her singularly unattractive, but that was really nothing new. Apparently, Jaime had been present enough to notice, his good hand ghosting over her fingers as he sent a questioning glance in her direction. In no mood for his gentle affections, Brienne pushed her bowl away from her, dropping her spoon gracelessly into it. With barely a look in Jaime’s direction, she stood up from the table, muttering her excuses, and fled the hall, much as she had done that fateful night so many weeks ago. And like that night, Jaime followed her.

Caught up in her rage, she did not hear his soft footsteps following behind her, did not even realize that he had gone after her until she attempted to slam the door shut. He caught the door in his golden hand, shutting it gently behind him as she whirled to face him, color high in her cheeks and her sapphire eyes flashing. Jaime leaned against the door, raising his eyebrow as he crossed his arms and waited for the inevitable breakdown. He encouraged, “What’s got you so upset, love?” The moment he called her “love,” Brienne’s entire face seemed to crumple as she shouted, “Don’t call me love!” Jaime’s jaw dropped as her voice broke, tears filling her eyes as she clapped a hand over her mouth. He moved towards her, but she flinched away, and he held himself back, despite his all-consuming urge to wrap her in his arms. “Brienne…” he whispered, tears rushing to his own eyes at the sight of hers. She blinked back tears, ordering, “Don’t call me _love_ when you spend all day thinking about _her_.” Brienne bit her lip to stop the barrage of words spilling out of her mouth before she could reveal more of herself.

Sucking in a breath, Jaime questioned, “Thinking about-? Do you think I want to go _back_ to her?” Brienne responded while stifling a sob, “I was such a fool, to think you could ever truly prefer me to her, that the novelty of Big Brienne wouldn’t wear off. Now that she might win, you-” His already bruised heart broke as she spoke, and he no longer had the resolve to hold himself back- he rushed forward and crushed her to him, feeling her body shaking against his chest as she attempted to control her emotions. When she finally stopped shaking, before she could pull herself out of his arms, he held her face in his palm, forcing her to look directly into his eyes. Running his fingers over her cheekbones, he asserted, “I _love_ you Brienne, it will only ever be you for me, please _, please_ believe me.” In an uncharacteristically small voice, she inquired desperately, “Then why won’t you _talk_ to me, Jaime? We have shared our darkest secrets, the best and worst of our deeds, and now you hardly look at me.” He sighed heavily, pressing their foreheads together as he whispered, “I have to kill her. It has to be me, there’s no one else.”

“What are you talking about, Jaime? There’s a whole army of someone else-s marching to King’s Landing. It doesn’t _always_ have to be you,” she begged, hoping he would see sense.

“You know she’ll never let any of them near her. Cersei will destroy the city before she lets anyone take it, because _she doesn’t care who dies_. I can’t let that happen; I indulged her for so long, and now I have to end it,” replied Jaime, equally determined to reject sense or die trying.

Brienne knew that set of his jaw, and realized that he would not be dissuaded, and so changed her plea: “Then let me go with you, at least. Keep you out of trouble, since you’re so inept at it on your own.” This, too, Jaime denied her, explaining, “I need to know that you’ll be safe, I can’t let you get anywhere near her, she’ll tear you apart.” Brienne opened her mouth to protest that she was a Knight of the Seven Kingdoms, and like hells would she ever tremble before Cersei Lannister. Jaime, however, saw that argument coming several hundred leagues away, and shook his head, the fringe of his unkempt hair brushing against her brow. Brienne’s shoulders drooped, her only response a vehement declaration that they would discuss it _at length_ on the morrow.

Jaime nodded, but knew that while there was breath left in his body, he would not consent to Brienne following him to probable death at the hands of either the Dragon Queen or his unhinged twin. Releasing her, he padded over to a chest, rummaging through it while stalwartly ignoring Brienne’s queries as to what in the hells he was doing. Triumphantly, with a bravado he certainly didn’t feel, Jaime held up a necklace with a golden chain. Dangling off the chain was a pendant – a crescent moon wrapping around a sapphire formed a circle which was surrounded by sunbeams – the sigil of Tarth. He explained, “The sapphire was set in a ring, but I did not think you would have much use for something that hindered your hands in a fight, so I had it re-set into this form. If you don’t like it, I-”

Brienne cut him off, holding the pendant gingerly, as though it would fall apart at the slightest provocation. She breathed out reverently, marveling, “It’s beautiful, Jaime. Whenever did you find the time to get it made? And the sapphire, for that matter?” He grinned, and answered, “I had it made for you the last time you were in King’s Landing. You departed before I could give it to you.” She furrowed her brow, as Jaime couldn’t have known that she was going to the meeting at the Dragonpit, and she hadn’t been to King’s Landing before that since-

She stared at him with a startled expression of dawning realization, and he shrugged sheepishly in return. “Even then?” she asked softly. “Even then,” he confirmed, “probably since Harenhal, definitely since the bear pit, loathe though I was to admit it to myself.” Tears flooded her eyes as a wide smile split her face, and she fastened the necklace around her throat, absentmindedly fiddling with it as it rested just beneath her collarbones. She laid a light kiss on his lips, which he deepened, slipping his tongue past her lips as he kissed her fiercely. They broke apart for a moment, both breathing rapidly, and he leaned in and whispered straight into her ear, “I am _yours_ , Brienne, until my last day and for whatever lies beyond that. I swear it.” He bit down on her earlobe, and she gasped out, “And I am _yours_ , Jaime, all yours,” tearing his shirt open and running her fingers over the broad expanse of golden chest as he nipped at the underside of her jaw.

Several hours later, Brienne awoke wearing nothing save for the necklace, Jaime’s side of the bed cooling beside her. A note lay on the table next to her. She picked it up, her heart dropping into her stomach. All it said, in Jaime’s practically illegible script, was “ _It has to be me. I love you._ ”

An hour later, Brienne was packed and on horseback, following the barely-filled tracks of Jaime’s destrier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! This is the part where I shamelessly beg for feedback. Are the sex scenes as awkward to read as they are to write? Help.
> 
> What I should have been doing this weekend: doing evals for work   
> What I actually did: write this fic 
> 
> Whatever, you guys are worth it! <3


	11. For Whom the (Wedding) Bells Toll

Jaime stood beside Brienne in the Great Hall of the Red Keep, Cersei looming down at them from the Iron Throne. She was the most gorgeous woman Brienne had ever laid eyes on - golden hair, flawless pale skin, and bright green eyes the same color as Jaime’s. The Queen’s eyes were cold as ice, glinting out at the two of them, and Brienne suppressed a shiver. Her hand tightened around the pommel of her sword as Cersei descended from the throne, feet hardly touching the floor as she glided towards them. Jaime didn’t flinch, so neither would Brienne, staring resolutely at the golden visage approaching them. Cersei placed her delicate hands on either side of Jaime’s face, and suddenly Brienne couldn’t breathe – that tender, adoring look that Jaime so often adopted around her suffused his features and she was drowning, _this wasn’t happening_. Wordlessly, Cersei wrapped her right hand around Jaime’s left, and led him up to the dais upon which her throne loomed. There he stood, stalwart and emotionless as he gazed down at her, the perfect golden twins versus the grotesque, brutish lady knight. Finally speaking, Cersei laughed, “As though you could ever love such a lumbering beast, brother. What a ridiculous little fool! Almost as foolish as dear, dead Sansa Stark.” Brienne jerked backwards as Jaime smirked his assent, placing his hand on Cersei’s delicate shoulder. Brienne wanted to snap it clean out of the socket, but the idea of her charge being killed left her knees too weak for the task.

Cersei tilted her head to the side, lips pursed out in mock sympathy. “Oh, you didn’t know,” she crooned, “Your poor little Wolf Queen was killed on my orders, your squire, too. Pendrick, was it? At any rate, don’t fret, for you shall join then soon enough. Ser Gregor!” The Mountain lumbered towards her, his grotesque purple eyes seeming to burn her as he approached, broadsword drawn. She drew Oathkeeper, the familiar pommel slipping out of her grip- _Jaime, what are you doing, come help me, please, I need you I need you, I-_ his hand grasped Cersei’s, and did not let it go.

Brienne woke up groaning and soaked with sweat, her armor clanging as she scrambled to her feet and violently retched into a bush. She leaned on a nearby tree for support, panting for breath as she attempted to regain her composure. _Just a dream, just a dream, Jaime loves me, he_ promised _._

She returned to her camp site, taking a long swig of water to wash her mouth out before settling upon the frigid earth once more, her cloak huddled around her. She was far enough south that the ground was no longer covered with feet of snow, but the chill of winter remained. Brienne huddled her body close to her chest, or as close as she could manage in full armor, and thought wistfully of her nice, warm bed in Winterfell, Jaime wrapped around her as the wind whistled menacingly, rattling the shutters. _Stupid, idiotic moron_ , she groused. _He’s lucky I love him or I would let him die on this fool’s errand._ The thought of Jaime dead, never again to open his eyes, tease her, and stalk her until she gave in and dragged him to their rooms-it was unlivable. She gritted her teeth, to protect herself from the cold as much as from the idea of Jaime’s death.

Just as she finally felt herself drifting back off, Brienne was rudely awoken by the sound of a twig snapping behind her. She shot up, her hand already gripping Oathkeeper, which she swung in a wide arc around her, still half asleep. The figure in her trajectory ducked, and before she could swing again, she realized that she recognized the cloak the man was wearing, as well as the shaggy head of hair. Brienne would have dropped her sword if she didn’t love it as one might a child. “JAIME?” she cried, utterly confused. She had been relentless in her pursuit to stay no less than a mile behind him. She sheathed her sword, exclaiming, “What are you _doing_ here?” Jaime grunted, looking a bit cross, which was _completely_ unfair, and he hissed, “I thought someone was following me; I doubled back during the night to find them. I think the real question is what are _you_ doing here, Brienne? I told you that I need to kill Cersei, whatever the cost. _You_ are the only thing I’m not prepared to lose, not for this mission, and not for anything else. What are you thinking? And sleeping alone outside in the dead of winter!”

Brienne merely looked at him, her wide blue eyes filling with tears even as she blinked them back. She stated simply, “You left.” His composure breaking, Jaime rushed to embrace her, and she whispered, on the verge of tears, into his neck, “You left, and you were going to die, and I have to save you Jaime, I can’t sit idly by and let you die, _I won’t._ ” Jaime huffed in irritation, but bundled her closer to his chest, their armor clanking together to create a discordant din. “Do you suppose,” he whispered, breath condensing in the frigid air, “that I could bear to watch you die for a mess that I created? That the idea of Cersei being able to hurt you doesn’t fill me with so much horror that I can hardly stand it?”

Brienne dislodged her head from his comforting warmth, leaning backwards to look him in the eye. “If you think I’m going to sit, safe and sound behind stone walls while you march out on this absurd mission, you’ve lost your mind completely. You are my…partner Jaime, and I will never let you run into the fray on your own any longer. Besides, it’s entirely preposterous to blame yourself for what Cersei’s become; she-” The volume of Brienne’s voice rose with passion as she spoke and she blushed hotly. Jaime shushed her at the increase in volume, in the case that anyone should hear them, despite the unlikelihood of anyone else being out in the middle of the woods during winter. Jaime grinned at her, his gloved hand slipping from her lips, down her back and gripping her right hand. “You know what sounds better than partner, wench?” Brienne furrowed her brows at the seemingly sudden change in subject until he answered: “Husband.”

She recoiled in shock; they had spoken of marriage once before, and Jaime had spoken of waiting until a more opportune moment to ask for her hand. Therefore, on his way to kill his ex-lover, who also happened to be the Queen, seemed somewhat unlikely timing for a proposal. Brienne looked around, bewildered, half-expecting Tyrion to leap out from behind a tree and laugh at her gullibility. As it was, Jaime only looked at her earnestly, emerald eyes filled with anticipation, as though he had asked her a question… _the_ question. He loosened his grip on her hand after several moments of her shocked silence, the shutters closing behind his eyes as he realized that the only woman he’d ever proposed to who _could_ marry simply him didn’t wish to, and-

Brienne could practically hear his insecurities screaming out at her as he moved to release her; she caught his hand in a vice grip, pulling him towards her so that their foreheads were touching. “Jaime,” she whispered, never wanting him to doubt her affections again, “I _want_ to marry you, and I would marry you here and now, but for the lack of a Godswood or Septon.” Brienne basked in the pure, incandescent happiness that suffused Jaime’s face as he looked upon her, and for a moment she remembered the sensation of sunlight on her skin. “Then let’s get married, here and now, wench.” Brienne looked at him, deeply concerned for his sanity. “Jaime,” she protested, “in the event that you hadn’t taken notice, we are rather in the middle of nowhere, we have no Septon, there is no Godswood for miles around, not to mention the witnesses!” “Fuck the witnesses. Fuck the Septon, and fuck the bloody Godswood for all I care. I refuse to live another day, another hour, without being your husband, and I intend to make it so.” Brienne continued to look upon Jaime as though he had lost what little was left of his mind, so he soothed, “Follow my lead. Do you take me to be your husband, Brienne?” Gripping his hand tightly, she responded, “I do Jaime, of course I do.” He continued, “Then I am yours, and you are mine, from this day until my last day.” Still confused as to the mixing of vows, she modified the traditional response: “As I am yours, and you are mine, from this day until my last day.” His voice wavering, Jaime swore, “I will shield your back and keep your counsel and give my life for yours if need be; I pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you dishonor, I swear it.” Brienne’s eyes filled with tears that she furiously blinked away as they exchanged their vows of fealty, blaming the nipping winter chill, reciting: “I will shield your back and keep your counsel and give my life for yours if need be; I pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you dishonor, my sweet, honorable Jaime.” He flashed that blinding grin at her once more, and she felt as though she was melting right into the earth as he proclaimed, “With this kiss, I pledge my love,” and captured her lips in a searing kiss. _Brienne Lannister of Tarth_ , she mused, _I believe it could grow on me quite quickly, indeed._

She moved to deepen the kiss, but Jaime pulled away, albeit with some reluctance. “What’s wrong?” she queried, concerned, as Jaime had never been one to shy away from her affections. He pulled her impossibly closer to him, growling, “When I bed my wife, my lady, you shan’t be able to leave our chambers for a week, let alone ride a horse.” Her cheeks flushed a brilliant shade of Lannister crimson, and she rolled her eyes at him. “Promises, promises,” she taunted, breaking away from their embrace to begin packing up her camp. Jaime leaned against a tree, managing to watch her lasciviously even as she was covered by her cloak and armor. Brienne felt a flush creeping down her chest and she shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. She hissed at him, “Stop _looking_ at me like that, Jaime!” Feigning innocent bewilderment, buoyed by a wave of bliss, he exclaimed, “What? Me? What could your poor lord husband have done to draw such ire, my dear lady wife?” Brienne attempted to glare at him, but Jaime’s evident glee at the idea of being married to her made being irritated with him quite difficult. She merely shot him a pointed look as she swung herself onto her horse, indicating to him that he should mimic her. He swung himself up onto his horse with a grace that never failed to surprise her. Despite the lack of his right hand, Jaime had an innate limberness in his movements, an ease that belied the fact that he had strived for mastery of his body every day of his life. Jaime smirked, having noticed Brienne watching him appreciatively, winking suggestively at her as he began strapping on his golden hand. Brienne shot him an inquisitive look, as he had not bothered with the prosthetic for several weeks. He explained, “A one-handed man riding towards King’s Landing _might_ give Cersei notice that I am coming, but word of a one-handed man riding with a woman of your stature? We might as well send her a raven announcing our arrival. If I keep a glove over it, we might be able to remain inconspicuous enough to get to Jon’s camp without being recognized.” “Wait,” halted Brienne, “You were planning to speak to King Jon about your plans?” He wheeled his horse around to face her, finally finished adjusting his glove over that _stupid_ golden hand, responding, “Of course, I wouldn’t want him to unintentionally interfere with my brilliant plan. You know, once I have one. Also, _someone_ ’s got to warn him and Daenerys about the caches of wildfire beneath the city, because we all know that Cersei would rather let the city burn to ash rather than surrender.” Brienne’s jaw dropped open, her eyes widening as she realized that she had entirely forgotten about the massive amounts of wildfire lying dormant beneath the streets of King’s Landing, ready to ignite at any given moment. “The dragons…” she breathed out, comprehension dawning as horror struck her keenly, her earlier giddiness fading disappointingly quickly as she realized how close the citizenry of the capitol was to meeting a fiery demise.

His eyes hardening, Jaime tilted his head towards the road, and together, they rode silently into the pitch-dark morning.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did y'all think of the wedding vows?   
> Sorry for another short chapter, but I've finally mapped out how I want the story to end! Well, more accurately, my best friend and I hashed it out over an hour-long Skype call. 
> 
> Please leave kudos and/or a review, they really do speed up my writing!


	12. The (Not So) Itsy Bitsy Spider

A hooded figure watched from the shadows as two figures on horseback approached Aegon Targaryen’s camp. They seemed to be whispering among themselves, the faint light of the distant campfires illuminating one head of shockingly blonde hair and another of grey-streaked golden. Brienne of Tarth leaned towards the Kingslayer to better hear what he was saying, and he took the opportunity to press a kiss to her flushed cheek. _Interesting_ , Varys mused, _very interesting_.

Brienne pushed Jaime’s face gently away from her as he chased her cheek with his lips, gracing him with a rare smile, shy though it was. “Come now, my love, we must give Varys the show he is so clearly seeking.” Instantly alert, Brienne craned her long neck around, looking for signs of the Spider lurking in the brush. She spotted the shape of a fluttering robe, her lips thinning in disapproval as she glared at her husband. “What is he doing _here_ , instead of with Queen Daenerys? And why did you let him _see_ you doing that?” Jaime shrugged, responding, “I haven’t the faintest idea, but it can’t very well be anything _good_ , so we ought to enjoy ourselves before facing not only Jon Snow’s incessant moping, but also whatever absolute _tripe_ Varys is going to force upon us.” Brienne frowned deeply, opening her mouth to scold him, but was cut off by the look of sheer panic that suddenly overtook his face, as though a pail of cold water had been thrown onto him. Concerned, she questioned, “Jaime? Jaime, what is it?” He tilted his head in the direction in which Varys had concealed himself with questionable competency, worrying, “Varys doesn’t abandon the ship unless he’s absolutely certain that it’s going to sink. If he’s here and not crawling back to Cersei with information on Daenerys, it’s the Targaryen girl herself he’s fleeing. If the ship is, as I suspect, sinking, I would prefer that my brother not be _on_ the ship.”

Brienne immediately felt terrible for not considering the position of her good-brother. Jaime must have seen some of her distress on her face as he soothed, “I’m sure that Tyrion is more than capable of getting himself out of whatever it is that Varys is fleeing from; he’d likely be greatly offended that we are so concerned on his behalf. Besides, Varys is literally _right there_ , let’s just ask him.” Jaime looked as though he was about to protest, loathe as he was to deal with the Spider, whose verbal webs never failed to make Jaime feel slower than he already did on a regular basis. Nevertheless, he wheeled his horse in the direction of the shifty-sounding bushes, skidding to a stop only a few feet in front of Varys. To his credit, the older man looked as unflappable as usual, the slight panic in his eyes the only thing marring his usual expression of casual disdain.

“What are you doing this far from your Dragon Queen, Varys?” Jaime drawled, attempting to mask his concern for Tyrion. Varys’ eyes widened as though he did not understand the question, his hands tucking themselves into his ridiculous robes. “Why, the same as you are -taking in the sights, Ser Jaime,” he inclined his head towards Jaime, and then greeted, “Lady Brienne.” Jaime cut in with a hard tone, “ _Ser_ Brienne.” “Oh, of course, my apologies, Ser Brienne of Tarth.” He eyed the two, considering them. Apparently having come to a conclusion, he raised an eyebrow, dismissing them, “Go to Aegon Targaryen’s camp, he shall provide you the answers you seek.” With that, he attempted to disappear back into the brush, with limited success. Brienne wordlessly helped Jaime back onto his horse, mounting her own and turning away from the Spider.

The troubled expression on her face did not waver, however, as she spurred her horse onward towards the camp. Sighing, Jaime took off after her, hearing the telltale sounds of Varys shuffling out from behind his shrubbery.

Jaime urged his horse after his wife’s, riding through the well-lit veritable city of tents until he found Brienne standing astride her horse. She was already speaking to Jon in low tones (by the Gods, she was efficient), explaining that Podrick was perfectly well-equipped to watch over his cousin in the North. The golden knight dismounted from his horse, stroking Honor’s mane lightly before joining his wife. Just as he was about to begin interrogating the man, Jon declared loudly, “Why don’t I show you both to your tents? Surely you’ve had a long ride and would like some rest?” Brienne grabbed Jaime’s bicep to stem the barrage of questions she knew he was about to unleash, and responded, “Of course, thank you, my lord. However, one tent will be sufficient for my husband and I.” If the boy was surprised, he did an admirable job at disguising it as he led them to a nondescript tent, nearly indistinguishable from the hundreds of ones surrounding it. Nevertheless, Jon must have known it was intended for them, because as soon as he secured the flaps of the tent, a very familiar half-man stepped out of the shadows.

Brienne was, as expected, the first to recover, her mouth open to exclaim his name. Tyrion put his finger to his lips and shushed her; Jaime nearly had to bite on his own tongue to keep himself from shouting his brother’s name, as well. Eerily in sync, Jaime and Brienne rushed forward simultaneously to hug Tyrion – the two six-and-a-half-foot giants seemed to have crushed the poor man in what resulted in a rather amusing tableau. They released him reluctantly, nearly hissing questions at him in their urgency to both ascertain the situation regarding Daenerys and reassure themselves that he was, in fact, alright. Tyrion shushed them again, none too gently, as he informed them that he was physically _fine_ until a few minutes ago, when two _absolute lunatics_ had ambushed him. On that count, neither one of them was particularly apologetic, though Brienne did feel slightly contrite about the possibility of hurting the shorter man with her considerable stature. Jaime retorted, “Now, is that any way to greet your good-sister?”

Tyrion bit back his own barrage of questions, but fixed Jaime with a look that assured a long conversation at a later date. He forced himself to speak instead of the matter at hand, informing those assembled in hushed tones: “Queen Daenerys has gone mad. Utterly insane. She jumps at shadows, sees enemies where there are but allies, will no longer listen to reason. She tried to execute Varys for treason, it was only a matter of time until she decided to come for me, too.” Jaime took this opportunity to interject, “Ah yes, our good friend Varys. He really needs to find better foliage to cower behind, it took us about ten seconds to locate him, spying on us as he was.” Tyrion shrugged, apparently unsurprised that the Spider had been watching them, retorting, “Yes, well, Varys is very good at recruiting others to do his dirty work for him. He’s quite unskilled at doing it himself, fortunately for the peasants he employs. In any case, he’ll be snuck into camp when the rest of the soldiers are asleep – who knows how many spies for Cersei or Daenerys sleep among us? It is one thing for a half-man such as myself to sneak into camp, but quite another for Varys to arrive unseen.”  

Jaime and Brienne shot one another inscrutable glances, before Jaime asked Jon, “So, where exactly are we meant to _hide_ Varys? Beneath our bed?” “Actually,” he began, albeit a bit sheepishly, trailing off. Jaime shook his head emphatically, denying, “I absolutely, unequivocally refuse to fuck my wife with the Spider beneath my bed!” Tyrion shushed him loudly, and Brienne smacked him on the arm furiously, as her a flush spread rapidly over her cheeks and down to her chest. He shot her an expression of faux innocence, ribbing her, “Unless you find someone watching preferable, sweetling? No need to be shy, we all have our proclivities.”

From the expression on her face, Jaime knew that nobody would be watching anything in their bedchamber but him begging her forgiveness this night. “Wait,” Tyrion interjected, “your wife? _Jaime._ ” The man in question nudged his wife with his shoulder, declaring, “Well, we couldn’t very well go on living in sin forever, could we? It was either quit fucking or get married, and the day I voluntarily stop fucking my wife is the day you can put me in the ground.” She blushed just like a maiden, despite the fact that Jaime himself had made quite certain that she was decidedly not so. At the thought, he fixed her with an adoring look that did not go unseen by the two other men in the tent, who somehow managed to look completely unimpressed by him while having a conversation with Brienne. He began listening to their conversation just as she remarked, “I’m sure he won’t have a problem with that. Right, Jaime?” Shaking himself out of his reverie, he absentmindedly responded, “Yes, of course, my love.” Jon gave him a sharp nod and exited the tent, with nary a backwards glance, leaving the three Lannisters to themselves. Jaime immediately whipped his head around to look at Brienne, asking, “What exactly did I just agree to?” She responded with a huff of bemused irritation, while Tyrion began whining about how he would surely kill himself if he was forced to spend time with _these two sops_ for any length of time. Brienne informed Jaime that they had agreed to host both Varys and Tyrion in their tent, to hide them from Cersei or Daenerys’ spies.

Jaime huffed, leaning his forehead against Brienne’s chest in a dramatic display of dismay over their impending lack of privacy. “Forget it,” he moaned, “just put me in the ground now, it’ll be easier on me.” Brienne patted his hair consolingly, placing a kiss on the top of his head before resting her own head on his while Tyrion mimed vomiting. “It’s a good thing you two were born Lannisters,” Brienne mused, “or else you would be the world’s worst-paid mummers.” Jaime replied, voice slightly muffled by Brienne’s cloak, “You’re a Lannister now, too, you know.” “More’s the pity for me,” she drawled, the potential acerbity of her words undercut by the fact that she was still burying her face in his hair. Tyrion despaired.

After about an hour of quiet discussion about Jaime and Brienne’s journey south (during which they studiously avoided talking about the details of the wedding), Jon brought a Maester, dressed in the black robes and chain of the Citadel. When the Maester removed his hood, it was, of course, a Spider in sheep’s clothing. Tyrion’s face brightened considerably as he realized he would no longer have to be alone with Jaime and Brienne. Jon herded them all towards the center of the tent, furthest away from any listening ears. Once he was satisfied that the possibility of being overheard was minimal, he asked Varys in his gruff Northern accent, “What news of Daenerys, why have you two fled?” Varys fixed the occupants of the tent with a grim look before launching into his tale: “In the weeks since Ser Jorah’s death, she has become increasingly…erratic, paranoid and suspicious. Every murmur of disagreement is treated as open rebellion, and she seems to truly believe that everyone seeks to either watch her fail or murder her. She once cared about fairness, even if she went about it in a questionable fashion. Now, she will listen to no-one but herself, metes out “justice” as she sees fit.” Jaime shot his brother a concerned look, as Jon motioned at Varys to continue. “I wanted to…test the waters, so to speak, so I acted as though I was trying to poison her – spoke of my plans nearly out in the open, sent untested children to poison her.” He chuckled to himself. “As though I would be careless enough to discuss open treason in a room that amounts to an echo chamber. In any case, she was quite set on executing me without a trial, by way of dragon fire. I’ve no intention of subjecting this realm to another Aerys Targaryen.” Jaime looked at him incredulously, interjecting, “And you escaped from a ship…in the middle of the ocean?” Varys raised an eyebrow, and he and Tyrion exchanged an incredulous stare. “All this time, Ser Jaime, and you still doubt me?” Jaime shot him a chagrined look, and Brienne joined him on principle.  

Dropping the matter, Varys decided to clarify the matter for the lesser intellects in the room: “She can’t sit on the Iron Throne, but we can’t take it without her dragons, Cersei’s in too strong of a position otherwise. Not to mention how terribly…messy three armies fighting each other would be. We have to find a way to convince her to take the city, and then remove her from the throne, by whatever means necessary.”

Jon, who had been staring morosely at the ground, lifted his eyes to resolutely meet Varys’ gaze, declaring, “I’ll do it.” The Lannisters’ heads whipped towards him, varying degrees of shock on their faces, as Varys simply graced him with a serene nod. “But,” Tyrion questioned, “don’t you love her?” The King in the North shook his head, curls somehow perfectly intact despite weeks on the march in the frigid winter, explaining, “Once, maybe I did, maybe I was drawn by her power, her beauty, the illusion that she was creating a new world, a better world. Her magnanimity extends only so far as complete agreement with her – and I doubt the millions of inhabitants of Westeros are going to readily bend the knee to another Targaryen, not when so many of them remember the reign of the last one…not to mention Sansa and the North.” Noting the incredulous looks he was receiving, Jon hissed, “The last thing this realm needs is more bloodshed, but I would gladly trade Daenerys’ life for that of my family and my people!”

Varys looked at Jon appraisingly, apparently satisfied by what he saw as a small smile overtook his features. Tyrion merely stared, agape. Jaime clutched Brienne close to him, his nose nuzzling at her temple as he contemplated how very glad he was that the woman he loved was on the same side of this war as he. Also, that she wasn’t a pyromaniac.

Brienne absentmindedly stroked his arm as it tightened around her, wincing slightly at the sudden pang she felt in her lower back, almost as though she was about to begin her courses. She had never been the most regular of women, especially after she left home, as she was malnourished and anxious the vast majority of the time. _If Cersei is going to kill me,_ she prayed to the Seven, _at least let it be before the bleeding starts, so I don’t have to deal with it._

“So,” she sighed, in an effort to distract herself from the pain, “how exactly were we planning on breaking into one of the most heavily guarded fortresses in Westeros? Secret tunnels?” Her voice dripped with sarcasm, but Jaime and Tyrion adopted thoughtful expressions, as though considering it. Varys may have, as well, but his face was about as expressive as mortar, especially as Brienne was not literate in the language of Varys’ micro-expressions. Tyrion began, “There might be a way, under Maegor’s Holdfast? It leads directly from the harbor into the Keep.” Jaime shook his head, “That way will be heavily guarded, she knows we know about it. What about the route I used to smuggle you out of the city? She still hasn’t figured it out, and I’ve never told her.” Tyrion protested, “But that will lead us straight into the dungeons, what about the guards there?” Jaime scoffed, “We just defeated the army of the dead, I dare say we can take out a few measly guards. The majority will be concentrated around her person, and the dungeons are the last place she’d expect us to be.” Brienne, who had only been in the Keep once, decided it was as good a plan as any, and nodded her acquiescence. Varys had apparently endorsed their plan, as well, as he raised no objections, but merely placed his hands into his sleeves and attempted to blend into the shadows. Jon gave a gruff nod, and added, “The siege of King’s Landing will likely begin tomorrow afternoon. Sers Jaime and Brienne, take as many guards out as you can without being seen– I’ll get Daenerys to the throne room. Sleep well.”

With that, he swept out of the tent, and the four remaining occupants looked at one another as they realized there was only one bed. It was going to be a _long_ night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Updates might be a tad more sporadic because ~law school~. I wrote this after like, five hours of civil procedure briefs, so let me know if it was any good?   
> I only got a few reviews on the last chapter, which were wonderful, but some more feedback would be great! (Even if it's constructive criticism!) Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Just a lil one shot for my babies before we die tonight, hope you guys enjoyed! Might do a POV for Jaime as a second chapter, if you guys want. Also, my submissions are now open, if anyone wants to request a Braime fic, just message me!
> 
> I would like to add that I feel completely clowned by tonight's episode, and I will be writing copious amounts of Braime that makes sense because I am literally shaking with rage


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